


Before you knew you'd know me

by nevertothethird



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Beach Holidays, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Impressions, Friends to Lovers, Makeup Artist Logan Echolls, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, VMTAP20, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevertothethird/pseuds/nevertothethird
Summary: A collection of ficlets originally written as part of theJuly 2020 Veronica Mars Trope-A-Palooza, created by jmazzy.Logan and Veronica's relationship in five different settings: makeup artist at a friend's wedding, best-friend's girlfriend, ditched on vacation, sneaky in love sweethearts, and fake daters reunited years later.Title for the collection taken from the Blind Pilot song "3 Rounds and a Sound."
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 135
Kudos: 239





	1. I hope we dance tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of chapter one is from the Blind Pilot song "[3 Rounds and a Sound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juvwlEO-x2o)."
> 
> Thanks to CCS for the hands and pencil brushes check.

Logan mistakenly thought that in his many years of working as a freelance makeup artist he had experienced everything a single bridal party could throw at him.

There were the bridal parties that none too discretely questioned his sexual identity who, upon discovering he was straight, transitioned to clawing and clamoring to win his favor. There were the bridal parties who hated or were jealous of the bride and thus demanded more of his attention than the bride herself. Or, his personal favorite, the bridal parties with everyone so sauced it was a mystery as to whether they would find the aisle.

Surely, Logan thought, given his breadth of experience, doing makeup for Lilly’s elopement couldn’t lend itself to any surprises. Right?

So far, yes. He cleans up his station, having finished the makeup of both brides and that of Jackie’s best-friend, Gabriela. One more to-go and his contribution to the wedding is finished. Then he’ll transition to the role of guest and be able to enjoy awkward political conversation with his former best-friend, indulge in all-inclusive drinks and food, and, if he's very very lucky, make some questionable decisions.

“I hope Gabi’s lipstick is smudge proof because she’s already doing shots.”

Logan takes a deep breath. _Fuck._

Enter, Veronica Mars, the woman he very much wants to make those questionable decisions with. And, if the slight shake of his hands is any indication, the person who also might prove he is _not_ in fact capable of handling everything.

“I gave her explicit instructions.”

“Well, in her defense, the brides are the ones pouring shots.” Veronica gestures to the stool and the makeshift makeup vanity setup in Lilly and Jackie’s suite. “So, it’s my turn?”

What he wants to say is she’s gorgeous. That he’s pretty sure she could run a 10k, throw on her bridesmaid’s dress, and still look so beautiful it could kill a man. But, of course, he doesn’t. Mainly because he’s witnessed with his own two eyes what she does to men who pay her unsolicited compliments. And sure, there have been times he’s caught her staring, only to have her look away once he catches her, but that could mean anything. Wish fulfillment personified.

Veronica hands him the cocktail she came in with and he takes a sip, grimacing at the sweetness. “What is in that?”

“Pretty sure everything.” When she’s situated on the stool, he hands her back the drink. “Don’t make me look too –” she sucks in her cheeks and does a shoulder shimmy. “You know?”

“Vampy?”

“Exactly. It’s hot as shit. I’m just going to sweat it off anyway.”

“I think, technically, it’s humid as shit.”

“You live to needle me, don’t you?”

She’s not right but she’s not exactly wrong. While they technically met for the first time a couple months ago, the foundation of their friendship is near misses and almosts.

Logan moved to Neptune when he was 12, and all Lilly talked about that summer was how Veronica’s dumb dad got a dumb job in Arizona, making them move before he got a chance to meet her. When he was 15, he moved to New York with his mom post-divorce, which was right about when Veronica’s dad, fresh off a divorce of his own, accepted the Sheriff’s job in Neptune and the two of them returned. Logan went to Hearst for college; Veronica went to Duke. He moved to LA post-undergrad; Veronica spent time in Boston before returning to the west coast for Stanford law. Even with Logan still in LA and Veronica in San Diego at the public defender’s office, it took Lilly organizing a group dinner to announce her surprise engagement to Jackie Cook for the two of them to finally meet.

Veronica’s quiet at first, occasionally humming to the playlist he has going as she sips her cocktail and either accepts or vetoes the makeup options he holds up for scrutiny. He tilts her chin up with a gentle press of his fingers and leans in closer, delicately blending out the concealer he’s dabbed under her eyes. This close he notices a ring of amber in her eyes hiding amidst all that blue grey. An observation he will add to his list of likely reasons for any and all future questionable decisions. 

Having her so close in this moment is both the best and worst thing to happen to him. They met for the first time six-weeks ago and he swears he’s been trying to catch his breath ever since.

“I meant to ask you last night but I –”

“– got waylaid by a group of frat bros buying you and Lilly Jäger shots?” he asks.

She bites her lip slightly, hiding the almost bloom of a smile. “Saw that did you?”

“I predict a long and happy life for you and Chaz.”

“We’ll probably be just as happy as you and Amberly.” He retreats slightly to reach for the setting powder, shaking his head at her teasing. She tugs on his brush belt, using the leverage to scoot forward to the edge of the stool. “But will your love be able to grow beyond that of a mutual love of peach schnapps and coconut body oil?”

“True love requires more than that?” She glowers and he laughs. “Stop crinkling. You’ll crease.” He lightly dusts the powder under her eyes. “That’s what you wanted to ask me about? My affinity for peach schnapps?”

She shakes her head. “I wanted to ask –”

“Close your eyes for me?”

She huffs at the request but does. “Why makeup?”

He smooths a dot of eye primer over each of her lids, blending it out with a brush. “Do you want the real reason, or the reason I usually tell people.” Her face scrunches up slightly at this question. “Relax,” he chides, tapping the tip of her nose with the brush.

“You relax,” she grumbles. “For the record, I always want the real answer.”

“It’s hard to remember my exact logic, but my decision was influenced a little by growing up on movie sets, a little by my jackass compulsion, and a little because I knew it’d piss my dad off.”

“And now?”

He smiles slightly, dusting a soft golden shimmer across her lid and blending it out into the light peach color he put down as a base. “You know that idea of flow?”

“Yeah.” She points at herself. “Psych major.”

“Well, I get it with surfing, sometimes when I write, but strangely enough I also find it putting sparkly shit on people’s faces.”

She laughs easily. “That’s an elegant way to talk about your profession.”

“I’m going to do a little eyeliner. Keep your eyes closed, okay?”

She nods. “Poke me and die.”

“Fair.” He runs the dark brown pencil along her lash line and softens the edge with a pencil brush.

“This might sound dumb, but that’s kind of why I became a lawyer,” she says eventually. “The flow thing. Something about the way the details of a case can click together. Click,” she snaps her fingers, “click,” she snaps them again, “click. Nothing feels as good.”

He frowns. There’s something she’s not saying. “But?”

She sighs. “But it’s really fucking hard.” She opens her eyes. “That too ‘woe is me?’”

He tosses the pencil brush onto the table. “No. It sounds honest.” He pauses to think. “And brave.”

“Brave?”

He crouches down, bringing them eye to eye. “Doing the right thing even when it cracks you open? I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Sounds brave.”

Most of his clients don’t want to make eye contact, but Veronica’s gaze is unflinching. Her eyes get a little glassy and a heavy weight lands in his stomach. Making a woman _cry_ is not usually one of his go-to seduction strategies. 

“Veronica?”

“I’m okay. Just –” She takes a deep breath, “I think I needed to hear that.”

He blots the tear away with a makeup sponge before it has the chance to fully form. Maybe that gesture would be fine on its own, one friend comforting another - or, a makeup artist doing his job - but then he runs a thumb along her cheekbone. 

Veronica’s breath hitches. “Smudge?”

He swallows. “No.”

“Oh.” She lowers her gaze, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. For one nauseating second, he thinks he’s somehow messed up. Then she looks back up at him and smiles. “Did I mess up the eyeliner?”

“No,” he says, smiling back. Her cheeks are flushed which, as a makeup artist, is usually the look he’s going for. Except he hasn’t her applied blush yet. He traces the blush that covers her cheeks with his thumb. “Waterproof formula. Also, you’re blushing.”

“I told you it was hot.”

The sound of the air conditioner kicking back on at that precise moment would be comical on its own, but it's enhanced by Veronica’s deepening blush.

Interesting. “No. That’s not it, is it?”

“What else could it be?” He applauds her attempt to appear unfazed by him, her tone all forced casual. She sets her empty cocktail glass on the counter. “You done with me?”

As their gazes lock he hesitates to respond. But then her eyes flick down to his lips. He’s met enough Amberly’s in his life to know what that means. He takes his brush belt off and tosses it on the table, ignoring the clatter of makeup brushes and compacts. Too many fucking questionable decisions to count at this point.

“Logan?” Veronica’s breath catches when he tugs her up and off the stool. “ _Oh._ ” 

That hitch in her breath will be something he thinks about for years to come. “No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”


	2. The story I heard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Blind Pilot song "[The Story I Heard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rF_ku6aP2s)". (Gotta love a bearded, tattooed man playing the xylophone.)
> 
> Prompt is from [this](https://nevertothethird.tumblr.com/post/618822256716595200/more-au-ideas) tumblr post.
> 
> Also, I know it's probably cooler to make the title all lower case, but I can't bring myself to not capitalize 'I.' Not even for the aesthetic.

If living in New York has taught Logan anything, it’s that you stock up on food and supplies the instant you see snow in the 10-day weather forecast.

(There was also one unbearably hot summer wherein his best-friend shared with him a plethora of strategies to avoid chafing while wearing a sundress. That education has been less applicable to his daily life.)

In the event one chooses to wait until the night _before_ said storm is scheduled to hit, you will spend hours waiting in line and regret every single life choice. Which is why, after a longer than anticipated night at the office, the only stop he intends to make is to the pizza place around the corner from his apartment. He’s more than prepared to hunker down for several days (could likely go a week if he needed to) and live a life of snowed-in quiet.

It helps that Duncan has basically vanished from their shared apartment. If Logan really tried, he could likely trace every fissure and crack in their friendship to a singular event two months ago. Fissures and cracks that made it so when Duncan texted _“Back in a couple days. Need to clear my head.”_ all Logan could be bothered to text back was a thumbs-up emoji. That was more than a week ago.

So, with Duncan gone, a pile of graphic design projects to work on from home, and a pizza large enough to eat off for a couple days, he is prepared for Snowzilla, Snowmageddon, or whatever it is this year’s storm is called. Balancing the six pack of beers under his arm, Logan opens the door to his apartment.

The trail of feathers and some sort of stuffing which begins in the entryway is his first clue that his night is poised to take an interesting turn. The size 7 women’s combat boots impeding his path is another indicator.

“Veronica?” he calls out. In response he hears a muffled shout coming from the direction of the living room.

Logan hangs his set of keys on the key ring, drops his wallet and phone into the decorative bowl by the door, and kicks Veronica’s combat boots out of the way. Rather than drop off the pizza and beer in the kitchen, he brings it on his search for her. The further he walks into the apartment the clearer her path of destruction becomes. More feathers and stuffing are scattered across the hardwood floors. If he’s not mistaken, most of the stuffing comes from one of several decapitated teddy bears. He kicks a hot pink teddy bear head with hearts for eyes out of his way and finds the source of the feathers: a pillow Duncan special ordered for his and Veronica’s two-year anniversary featuring Duncan’s face surrounded by a heart of Swarovski crystals. Logan laughed when Duncan showed it to him. Which was right about when he realized Duncan hadn’t intended for the gift to be ironic.

Veronica has apparently taken a knife to the thing. They broke up six months ago. Why would –? Logan freezes in his path to the living room. Holy. _Shit_.

His laptop. Smashed to unrecognizable bits. Duncan’s architectural design award amongst the wreckage indicates this is not an unfortunate accident. No, it too occurred in the time of the teddy bear massacre. He takes several deep breaths.

How did he get swept up in the fallout of Duncan and Veronica’s breakup? By all accounts, Duncan did what Duncan does and ended things with Veronica in the most cowardly way possible – by ignoring her until she forced him into a conversation. But he remembers being _very_ clear with her that he thought Duncan’s actions were shit. Told her she deserved better and that she would get it. Said something similar to Duncan, even, during a rather heated argument a couple months ago.

So, why take it out on him and his beautiful MacBook Pro?

He walks into the living room to find more severed teddy bear heads, several photos of Duncan and Veronica torn into shreds, and a half full bottle of ( _fucking hell, Veronica)_ expensive Scotch whisky. Which means somewhere in this room is also a _very_ drunk Veronica Mars.

“Veronica?” At this point he’s not sure what to scream about first: Veronica murdering his laptop, creating such a mess, or bringing shame to the Glenlivet name. She answers his call with another mournful moan. A moan coming from behind the couch.

He sets the pizza and beer on the coffee table and kneels on the couch, peeking behind it. Face buried in a pillow while she lays on the floor, she’s also somehow burritoed herself into his down comforter. Great. She murders his laptop, drinks his whisky, and is trending towards vomiting all over his Egyptian cotton duvet.

“What are you doing here?”

“Duncan lives here.” Words not quite slurred but a little slow coming out. Like she’s really thinking about them.

“But you do not.”

She turns her face to look up at him. “Duncan broke up with me.”

“Yeah,” he says carefully. “A while ago.”

“Do you know _why_ he broke up with me?”

He shakes his head. “Do you?”

She tries to push herself up but as her arms are tucked inside the blanket the attempt is unsuccessful. Undeterred, she pitches her butt up in the air like an inch worm and uses the momentum to sit up and back on her haunches. Logan fakes a cough to cover up his laugh.

(The scar on his upper thigh serves as a reminder as to why he should never laugh at Veronica when she’s drunk. Still, sometimes it’s worth it. He’s yet to meet anyone whose drunk persona is more disparate from that of their sober one.)

“He said we grew apart. He _said_ he didn’t want to hurt me. He **_SAID_** that maybe, one day, we could try again.”

“Okay. I’m picking up on the fact that there are things he did _not_ say.” 

She frees a hand from her burrito cocoon to tap herself on the nose. “What he _didn’t_ say was that ‘grow apart’–” she does air quotes with her free hand, “means his dick grew into another person. If you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. Your meaning is pretty clear.”

She sighs, inching towards him on her knees. “You remember Pamela Stewart?”

“From high school?” Okay, now _that’s_ surprising.

The woman in question was very into Duncan when they were teenagers, but he was so moonfaced over Veronica, Logan didn’t think he even noticed.

Apparently not.

“They dated for like a second when we took a break during my gap year. But, guess whose father is the 10th congressional district’s new representative?”

“How did he and Pam even reconnect?”

She grimaces. “Celeste. That political fundraiser Duncan and I went to? Pam was there. She seemed so _nice_ , talking about high school, and how happy she was that Duncan and I were back together.” She mimics throwing up. “I’m an idiot.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m guessing you just found out about all of this.”

She hikes his duvet up around her head and pulls it tight. “Saw them while I was grocery shopping.” Her first official attempt to stand is successful, wobbling only the slightest bit. “I went home, put my groceries away, and did some digging.”

“Digging?”

“Someone should tell Duncan that it is irresponsible,” she punctuates each syllable with a finger stab in the air, “to cheat on your girlfriend but stay signed into your email accounts on her computer.” She leans closer to him. “He calls her Pookie.”

Okay, so the scene in his apartment is beginning to make more sense. Veronica must have come over to the apartment to confront Duncan about what she discovered. But, as he wasn’t there, she diverted to plan B: drunkenness and destruction of property. Why the _fuck_ she decided his laptop needed to pay would be something he asks sober-Veronica.

“Do I smell pizza?” she asks, veering to the left and bumping into the couch as she takes a couple baby steps forward.

“You smell _my_ pizza.”

“Is there any way it could be _our_ pizza?” She tries to tilt her head, a patented move of hers, but her coordination is still off enough that she kind of tilts her whole body, hinging over at the waist.

“Alright, drunky, come here.” He extends a hand and she bats at the air aimlessly until she makes contact with his hand, pulling herself closer once she does. He leads her around the couch and helps her sit down. “You need water.”

“Okay.” He’s barely out of the room when her voice follows him into the kitchen. “Do you have ice cream?” _Definitely_ not how this evening was supposed to go.

“I’ll put in a postmates order,” he calls back. “Anything else?”

“Yeah! A bottle opener!”

Why does she –? He groans. He tucks the bottle opener into his pocket and grabs plates and napkins. The water will have to wait.

Veronica has not only reopened the bottle of whisky and tucked it between her knees, she’s positioned the six-pack of beer beside her. Like she’s afraid it’s going to go somewhere. She has a slice of pizza in hand and there’s already a discarded crust in the box.

“You’re supposed to be sobering up.”

“I am?” she asks around a mouthful of pizza. “Why?”

Well, he doesn’t really have a good answer for her. He removes the whisky bottle from between her knees and sets a plate on her lap. “If you get grease on my duvet, I’m kicking you out.”

“What are you doing with my whisky?”

“ _Your_ whisky?”

She nods as she takes another bite. “My mouth has been all over it.”

“Your mouth was all over me during a memorable game of seven minutes in heaven. That mean I’m yours, too?”

She blows a raspberry in his direction. Something of the tomato sauce or pizza grease variety _definitely_ just landed on his comforter. “We were 16. It doesn’t count.”

“Oh. It counted. Whisky or beer?”

“Beer please.” He tosses the opener and it lands beside her on the couch. “Thank you.” Or, at least that’s what she probably intended to say but the ‘you’ comes out half word, half hiccup-burp. “Gross.” She tosses her second pizza crust into the box and reaches for a third slice.

He laughs. “You’re a mess.”

“I’m working on it.”

He claps his hands together. “This is what is going to happen. I’m going to run across the street and get ice cream and more beer. When I get back, I will order another pizza, and maybe – if you’re a very good girl – garlic bread and brownies from that place you like. Then we watch _Raiders of the Last Ark._ ”

She nods all serious like. “Deal.”

“Please don’t break any more of my stuff while I’m out.”

“I didn’t break your stuff.” She frowns. “When did I break your stuff?”

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. Okay. Well, that kind of answers that question. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Logan, is – he isn’t? Right?”

It takes him longer than it should to figure out what she’s trying to ask. The quick jerk of her chin to the staircase that leads to the apartment’s bedrooms is what does it. _Right_.

“Duncan hasn’t been around much these days.”

She flops back on the couch, closing her eyes in relief. “Good. Good. That’s good.” Then her eyes pop open. “Not that – you know? It’s not that – I’m sorry that…ugh.” She finishes her practically nonsensical speech with a groan.

“Veronica, as long as _you_ don’t stop talking to me, I’m good. Okay?”

There’s a hint of a blush dusting the apples of her cheeks. He thinks she might argue with him about his statement, but instead she nods. Once. “Got it.”

“Back in 5,” he holds his hand up, wiggling his fingers as he does. “Save me a slice.”

Once he’s out of the room, out of Veronica’s orbit, he’s able to think. Aside from the mild destruction of property, she’s handling this pretty well.

Hell, if the person he thought was the love of his life cheated on him – He stops that thought mid-tracks. Okay, so technically, that _did_ happen to him. But that was different. He and Lilly were kids playing with grown-up feelings. Duncan and Veronica were in their junior year of college before he got up the nerve to ask her out. You don’t just throw away a six-year relationship because dating someone else is advantageous to the 30-year plan your parents have established. Right?

Well, maybe Duncan does.

By the time Logan makes it back with enough pints of Ben and Jerry’s to get them through at least a week (dodging Manhattanites in varying states of pre-snow high dudgeon along the way), Veronica has polished off another couple slices of pizza and a beer. When she then, it appears, passed out while clutching the remote control in one fist and a pizza crust in another.

God, she’s so cute it’s actually painful. Well, aside from the whole ‘it looks like she actively smeared pizza sauce on his duvet cover’ thing. But he’s pretty sure he’ll forgive her.

Logan pries the remote and pizza crust from her hand, then scoops her up duvet and all.

“What?” she asks, stirring awake.

“Time for bed.”

“Did you get me Cinnamon Buns?”

“I got _me_ Cinnamon Buns.”

“Could it be _our_ Cinnamon Buns?” 

“Ask me tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” The softness of her voice indicates she’s halfway back to sleep.

“Because you’re sleeping.”

“Oh. Okay.” The fact that she doesn’t even argue is how he knows she’s drunk. She just lays her head on his shoulder, exhaling a deep breath that definitely smells of pizza and beer. She burrows even closer as he walks up the stairs, clutching at his back.

Duncan is a fucking idiot.

He sets her on the bed in the guest room and she barely stirs as he pulls the blankets up over her. After moving the trashcan closer to her bed and outfitting the nightstand with what she’ll need for her morning hangover, he nudges her awake. A gentle press to her shoulder is all it takes.

“Veronica.”

“Logan?”

“If you need anything, I’m just down the hall, okay?”

She smushes her face into the pillow as she nods. “Okay.” He keeps the door cracked so he can hear if she gets sick in the middle of the night. Her quietly spoken “Logan?” halts his full retreat.

“Yeah?”

“Tell Captain Jo-Jo I’m sorry.”

“Who’s Captain Jo-Jo?”

“The pink teddy bear. Ripped his head right off.”

 _God._ Physically painful.

* * *

As he suspected he might, Logan wakes to the sounds of Veronica throwing up. Only, it’s not coming from the guest room. Seems like she was awake enough to decide the bathroom in his room was the best location to empty the contents of her stomach.

He jumps out of bed to find her in his bathroom slumped against the wall, weakly reaching to flush the toilet. Has to hand it to the girl: her technique is flawless. She had the good sense to put her hair in a ponytail and everything made it in the toilet. At some point in the night she stripped off her sweater and jeans and traded them in for an oversized novelty shirt he doesn’t recognize. Probably something Dick left behind last time he was in town.

“Don’t say anything,” she says.

“What could I possibly say?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll be right back.” And then, because he can, “don’t go anywhere.” She groans in reply.

He retrieves the glass of water and ibuprofen from the guest room. Back in his room he grabs a pair of his joggers with a drawstring waist that should be easy enough for Veronica to cinch tight as well as one of his sweatshirts, tossing both on the bed. One peek out his balcony doors tells him everything he needs to know about the next few days: at least six inches of snow have fallen overnight, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop any time soon. Oh, Veronica is going to _love_ this.

She hasn’t moved from her position in the bathroom, but she also hasn’t thrown up again. That’s a good sign.

“Hey, Captain Jo-Jo? How you feeling?” In response to his question she kicks a leg out at him. It’s ineffectual, not coming anywhere near him, but he’s proud of her for trying. “That good, huh?”

“I made bad choices,” she says, her eyes closed.

“Been there.” He places the ibuprofen and water on the bathroom counter. “I’m going to make us some breakfast. Come down when you’re ready, okay?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just get a cab. Wallace is probably worried.”

He crouches down. “Well, I told Wallace where you were last night. And you’re not going to be able to get a cab for a while.”

She cracks one eye open. “Why?”

“You know that Snowphoon they warned about?”

She groans. “Nooooo.” The way she says it, the simple word now contains at least five syllables. “I can’t be snowed in _here_.”

Maybe he should find that offensive, but it just makes him laugh. “Love you too, kid.”

“You know what I mean. I can’t be snowed in where I destroyed my ex-boyfriend’s property, knowing he could come back any second.”

He breathes out a deep sigh. “Yeah, about that.”

She opens the other eye. “What?”

“After you fell asleep I went up to Duncan’s room to look around.” He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, kneading out a tension spot there. “I’m pretty sure he moved out.”

“Without telling you?”

“Based on the fact that most of his clothes and possessions are gone, yeah.”

“When?”

He joins her on the bathroom floor. “Can’t say for sure,” he says with a shrug. “Things have been weird.”

She frowns as she stares back at him, and he knows what she’s doing: trying to discern what isn’t saying so she can precisely target her question. Having a conversation with Veronica is sometimes like foxtrotting with a heat sinking missile.

“Lie.”

“Look –” he starts to explain, stopping when her eyes drift to the glass of water on the counter. He rises up on his knees to reach for both it and the ibuprofen, handing them to Veronica.

“Thanks,” she says, popping the pills in her mouth. “You were saying?”

“I know you told me not to say anything to Duncan, but I couldn’t help it. The guy went from looking at engagement rings to acting like you never existed. It was _weird._ ”

“You’re telling me.” She shakes her head a little. “That doesn’t make sense, though. He stopped talking to you because you asked why he broke up with me?”

 _Oh, fuck._ He kind of forgot about the details of his and Duncan’s conversation. Okay. That’s not entirely true. Right after their argument, Logan expected some sort of retribution, though he didn’t know what form it would take. Duncan doesn’t really do passive aggressive, or even aggressive aggressive. His tactic was more passive acquiescence. There was a reason Lilly nicknamed him Teen Idle in high school. So, it’s not like Logan thought Duncan would attack him or anything. He did, however, think there was a real possibility Duncan would somehow slip to Veronica the contents of their conversation. When that didn’t happen, and he and Duncan grew more distant, he tried to forget their argument.

Except now Veronica is asking about it.

“I think he was mostly upset I came to your defense,” Logan says.

“Well you should have. You were my friend first.”

“You know Duncan. He’s got a very specific definition of loyalty.”

“What did you say?”

“Eh, it’s not important.”

“Lie. That’s two already.” 

He grew up in a family of liars. Has often prided himself on his ability to bullshit anyone. But somehow Veronica is immune to his ability. Has been since she was 12-years old.

“You knowing will not make a material difference.”

“You’re being evasive. Tell me.”

He stands up. If he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to start drumming his fingers against his leg. He’s learned from many nights of poker with Veronica that that is his tell. “Pancakes or French toast?”

“I want French toast and I want you to tell me what you said to Duncan.”

“Bacon or sausage? Also, it doesn’t matter.”

Balancing a hand on the bathtub, Veronica slowly stands. “Both. And if it didn’t matter, you would just tell me.”

“I think I’ll fry up some hashbrowns,” he says, backing out of the bathroom. “Sounds good, right? French toast, bacon –” Veronica reaches for his hand, holding tight and stopping his retreat.

“Logan.”

Her voice, soft and pleading, is all it takes. He drops his head back, eyes to his bedroom ceiling, and sighs. “The details are a little fuzzy, but I remember him accusing me of being jealous, and I –” one more deep breath, “I didn’t exactly deny it.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would you be jealous?” _God_. She really has no idea. The two of them together are maybe the smartest-dumbest-assholes in the world. He rolls his eyes (mostly at himself) and fixes her with a pointed stare. Tips his head towards her when she still doesn’t say anything. After another second, her eyes go wide. “Oh.”

He pulls his hand free from her grip. Hers drops lifelessly to her side, smacking against her bare leg. “I’m going to get started on breakfast.”

“Okay.”

“And I set some clothes out for you on my bed. If you need them.”

She nods. “Thanks. I might take a shower, if –”

“You know where everything is,” he says, putting more distance between them. “Spare toothbrushes under the sink.”

“Yeah.” She slips back into the bathroom. He waits to leave until he hears the click of the latch.

“That was dumb, you dumb fuck,” he mumbles to himself, all but stomping down the stairs. He flicks on the gas fireplace in the living room, knowing Veronica will want to wrap his duvet back around her and watch the snow fall for most of the morning.

“Dumb,” he says once again. But maybe not unfixable.

He gathers the ingredients for French toast, starts a pot of coffee, and all the while attempts to construct a logical explanation as to _why_ he would be jealous. In a completely platonic way. Maybe he can convince her his jealousy stemmed from once being her number one guy but having Duncan take his place?

He takes a sip of his coffee and frowns. No. No way she’ll believe he was capable of hiding his jealous feelings for _six years_. Because that’s not what happened.

Somewhere in the past couple of years, though, it shifted. She’d come over to watch _The Big Lebowski_ and Duncan would pointedly turn up the volume to drown out her quoting. Or, she’d pitch taking a trip to Morocco and Portugal during her annual PhD research leave, and Duncan would suggest they stay in the city, so he didn’t miss election primary season. The more this happened, the more Logan asked himself questions like “why is she still with him?” combined with others like “what is Duncan’s problem?” Until he realized that maybe his anger on behalf of his best-friend was also jealousy in regard to the other. Typical.

(Now that he’s introspecting, maybe it wasn’t admitting to Duncan that he was jealous of his relationship with Veronica that led to the radio silence. It might have had more to do with Logan’s insistence that Duncan would _never_ come close to finding someone better than Veronica. And, not to be a dick, but if Duncan truly believes hitching his wagon to Pam Stewart’s familial connections is an upgrade, then the guy has fucking lost it.)

By the time Veronica makes it back downstairs, the bacon and sausage are in the warming drawer, he’s working on the last batch of French toast, and Logan has a plan. But then she sidles up beside him to pour herself a cup of coffee and he loses the thread. She’s drowning in his clothes and her hair is basically a nonsense pile on top of her head. This is going to pose some problems. 

“Feeling better?” he asks.

“Eh,” she says, putting the half and half back in the fridge, “maybe 60%.”

“Pretty impressive considering how much whisky you took down last night.” He places the last few pieces of French toast on his grill pan.

“Yeah, that kinda surprised me.” She settles herself on one the breakfast bar stools. “Whisky’s not really my thing but that stuff went down _smooth_. Maybe I should get some for my dad.”

He hesitates. Does he tell her? As he sees it, he has two options: tell her himself, or risk her feeling dumb when she figures it out on her own. He turns around, wielding his spatula.

“Remember that brother bonding trip Charlie and I took to Scotland a couple years ago?”

“Yeah,” she says warily.

“Well, congratulations, Veronica Mars. You drowned your sorrows in about $200 worth of whisky.” He points the spatula at her. “Not many women can say that.”

There’s that assessing gaze of hers again. When he doesn’t flinch or look away, she takes a deep steadying breath. “You’re telling me I just threw up a $200 bottle of whisky?”

“No. You threw up half a $400 bottle of whisky.”

She drops her head to his breakfast bar. “Logan,” she whines.

“Yes, dear.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“If you remember, I took the bottle from you.”

“Yeah, but –” She lifts her head up from the countertop and looks positively _miserable_. “$400?”

“Good, right?” He turns around to flip the French toast. “Oh, also, I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do with the bodies of your stuffed animal victims. They’re in a bag by the couch.”

He hears her jump down from the barstool. “Probably best to throw them away.”

“Did you bring them over here just so you could destroy them?”

“Duncan’s been bugging me to come and get that box of stuff for a while. I never meant to stay but then I saw Captain Jo-Jo with those dumb fucking heart eyes, and I _snapped_.”

“Yeah, well, it happens to the best of us.” He takes the finished pieces off the grill pan and switches off the burner. “Not me because I am, of course, perfect. But for plebeians like yourself?” French toast. Done. Frozen berry compote. Done. Bacon and sausage. Done. There’s only half a pot of coffee left. Maybe Veronica’s ready for a warm-up. “Kitchen or dining room?” he asks, his head in the cupboard. He knows Veronica is going to bypass the fruit compote and ask for Nutella. Might as well get it out now.

He sets the Nutella on the counter and cranes his neck to peer into the living room. Veronica stands facing the big windows, her hands on her hips as she gazes at something out of his sightline. Based on the tightness of her shoulders, it’s nothing good. Maybe an idiot in an Audi tried to drive down the street and got stuck. Again.

“Veronica?”

“Uh,” she says, distracted. “Kitchen is fine.”

“Well, it’s ready.” He finishes setting their places and gets the orange juice from the fridge. Maybe it was seeing all those stuffed animals in the daylight. Remnants of a relationship, even one that’s been over for a while, are never fun reminders. Duncan was important to Veronica for a long time and that doesn’t just –

“You sure Duncan moved out?”

“Huh?” She’s still facing away from him, so he can’t read her expression. “Yeah. He obviously left some stuff behind, but –”

“But he took the important stuff.”

“I assume so.”

Finally, she steps away from what she was looking at. She turns around and points a decisive finger at his smashed laptop. “Wouldn’t his laptop be considered important?”

“Oh,” he says. “That.”

She takes a deep breath. “Why didn’t he take his laptop, Logan?”

“See, the thing about that is –” he doesn’t know if he’s chewing the scenery to spare her or because it’s already been a morning and, in a sick and twisted way that likely needs further exploration, it soothes him to needle her.

“This is yours, isn’t it?”

“Affirmative.”

“Son of a bitch!” She smacks a hand to her forehead. “Oh, god. I chugged your $400 bottle of whisky like a drunk sorority girl with Natty Light _and_ smashed your laptop to bits.”

“At least it was my personal laptop.” She glares at him. “It’s true. If it was my work laptop I’d be royally fucked. The worst thing about you smashing up my personal one is I’m going to have to remember all my passwords when I buy a new one.”

She points at herself. “I’m buying you a new one.”

“Great.”

“I mean it, Logan.”

“Excellent.”

“I don’t think you’re taking me seriously.”

“I’m taking you _very_ seriously. The annals of history will testify to how seriously I am taking you in this moment.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“An asshole who is taking you seriously.” He holds up the coffee carafe. “More coffee?”

“I am going to _murder_ you,” she glowers.

“All that to get out of buying me a new laptop?”

“It will be slow and painful.”

“That’s how I like it.”

“Really? The way I hear it, with you it’s always quick and painless.”

“Lie.” He can see the gears turning in her hangover addled mind as she comes up with a new retort. She must still not be feeling great because she’s not as quick as she usually is. “Will you just shut up for a second and come eat your bacon?”

Oh! Whipped cream. He knew he forgot something.

He hears her shuffle into the kitchen all petulant, literally dragging her feet behind her. Instead of sitting down at the breakfast bar, she stops directly in front of the fridge, blocking his path.

“Need the whipped cream,” he says. She stares at him stone-faced. “For the French toast.” Silence. “I put vanilla in it.” Did she somehow fall asleep while standing? “Veronica –?”

She takes a step forward and wraps her arms around his waist. It’s not entirely unusual for the two of them to hug. To be honest, if Veronica is prone to destruction when drunk, he’s prone to seek out physical affection. Usually one of the first things he does when drunk is drape himself over Veronica. Or, put his head in her lap and insist she play with his hair. But it’s not often that Veronica hugs him tight like this. He wraps his arms around her just as tight.

“You’re sure you’re not mad?” she asks, her words mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

He smiles, kissing the crown of her head. “I promise.”

“I’m buying you a new laptop.”

“You already said that.”

“And I’m sorry about the whisky.”

“It’s liquor, Veronica. You drank it. If anything, you helped it fulfil its destiny.”

“And I think you should kiss me.”

There’s a dull roar that fills the space in his brain that thoughts would usually occupy. “Say that again.”

She pulls back, but only enough, to look up at him. “Maybe this is a dumb idea, but all morning I’ve been thinking about how _mad_ I am about Duncan. How angry and betrayed but, I – I also don’t really care that he’s dating someone else. You know?”

“Okay.”

“But then I thought about you. And I thought about Duncan moving out without telling you and what it would take for me go all Teen Idle on you and –” she shakes her head, “– and there’s nothing. I wouldn’t be able to do it. That probably means something, right? So, I think maybe you should kiss –”

Hearing her say the word ‘kiss’ for a second time is all the incentive he needs to pull her body back flush against his, but the surprise “ _oh_ ” she breathes out helps as well.

If there’s a protocol for kissing your best-friend for the first time in more than a decade, it’s never crossed his desk. All he thinks is ‘make it worth it.’ And maybe that’s what Veronica thinks too, because their lips remain pressed together softly for maybe half a second before they initiate an unspoken race to see who can devastate the other person first. Her hands are on his back, then in his hair and she tugs, _hard_ , and _fuck_ that really works for him.

In one sense, he remembers this from that night of drunken adolescent party games. Some distant memory is reawakened at the press of her body against his, but the experience of kissing an adult Veronica (an adult Veronica who _wanted to kiss him_ ) is so beyond that experience it’s hard to compare. Indecision is no man’s friend, and yet he can’t decide if he likes kissing her lips, already reddened by his kisses, or her neck more. The way Veronica tosses her head back as he kisses under her ear is some indication she sure as hell has a preference. And _holy shit._ He now knows that when he kisses his best-friend’s neck that her breath hitches in such a way that he’ll think about it for years to come. She’s practically up on her tiptoes, arms wrapped around his neck now, and there’s something so surreal about this moment he can’t help but smile even as he kisses her again.

She smiles back. “Something funny?”

“This is so weird.” He kisses her cheek.

“Good weird?”

“Very good weird.”

“I agree.” She drops her arms from his neck and smiles up at him. “Food’s getting cold.”

This woman. Pretending like they weren’t another heated minute or two away from him slipping his sweatshirt off her body. He sees the flush on her cheeks running down to her neck, though. Knows that means something. 

He watches her spread Nutella on her French toast and drop huge spoonfuls of whipped cream on top. She adds three slices of bacon to her plate, stops to consider, and then adds a couple more. She chugs her coffee, and that is apparently when she’s had enough of him.

“Quit looking at me.”

“It’s my kitchen.”

“I can’t eat when you’re staring.”

“The amount of food you just shoved down your gullet proves otherwise.”

Her smile is murderous, and he _loves_ it. Before making his own plate, he tops up each of their coffees.

“You know,” he says, aiming for conversational (he would be satisfied if it comes even sort-of casual). “They say another four inches of snow might fall over the course of the day. Another two to three overnight.”

“That’s a lot of snow.”

“ _Definitely_ not safe for you to travel.”

“You’re saying I’m snowed in.”

“Only if you want to be.”

“Think you can keep me occupied?”

“Oh, I know I can.”

She hums a little as she sips her coffee. “Promise?”


	3. How the powder burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Blind Pilot song "[Packed Powder](https://youtu.be/xIZR52eKgUA?t=245)", but specifically Israel Nebeker's explanation of the meaning behind the song from their NPR Tiny Desk concert. 
> 
> Mildest of content warnings for mention of sexual harassment.

**Ocean Side Junior Suite, San José del Cabo – 1:20 AM**

* * *

This can’t be real.

Veronica stares at the rollaway bed housekeeping just delivered to the room. Wait, that’s inaccurate. Calling this thing a ‘bed’ might actually inspire brands that manufacture bed frames and mattresses to sue her for slander. At best it’s a group of springs covered in a baby pink fabric resting upon a larger spring. 

She fixes Logan with an unimpressed look. He smiles, all wide and smug as he fluffs the double bed’s pillows with gusto. Is it possible to fluff a pillow _smugly_? Well, if it is, he’s doing it. Even takes great care to flatten out the corners of the pillowcase.

Her initial idea to sleep in the bathtub is looking better by the second.

“Well,” Logan says, tucking himself into bed. “Sleep tight.”

She points to the cot. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’re practically a stranger. I’m not going to let a strange woman into my bed.”

“So, you’ve never had a one-night stand?” He opens his mouth to respond and she rolls her eyes. “Of course you have. I mean, look at you.”

He cocks his head, considering her statement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the poster child for casual sex. All tan, and –,” she lowers her voice for her go-to ‘dude-bro’ impression, “– I’m Logan, and I surf, and look at me and all my skin. Wanna touch my abs?”

“That’s what you think I sound like?”

“Let me share that bed!” she not-quite-but-maybe-almost yells at him.

“Pretty significant change of tune from ‘don’t speak to me’ isn’t it?”

There’s not an appropriate verbal response to that (true) statement, so all she can think is – _murder eyes_.

He laughs. She intensifies the murder eyes. “Look,” he says breezily. “I share my bed with two kinds of women. One,” he holds up a finger, “women I fully intend to never see again. Those of the, as you have accurately assessed, one-night stand variety. And two,” he holds up a second finger, “women I am in love with.” He drops his hand to the blanket. “You are in the unfortunate spot of being somewhere in the middle. _Ipso facto_ , enjoy the cot.”

“A gentleman would let me have the bed.”

“When did I ever say I was a gentleman?” She scowls at him, and there’s that ‘aren’t I cute?’ smile again. It was the same damn smile that got her to stay and have another drink with him when she _knew_ she should have gone up to her room. He throws a pillow at her and she narrowly catches it before it smacks her in the face. “Sweet dreams.”

Logan turns off the bedside lamp. The only remaining light in the room comes from the bathroom, the door cracked so she can find her way in the dark. He shifts in the bed, getting comfortable, and Veronica bites down on her lip from yelling something else at him.

Technically, this isn’t his fault. Doesn’t mean she has to be nice about it, though. She throws the pillow onto the rollaway bed. Even that little amount of force causes the springs to squeak.

God. Mac is going to _pay_ tomorrow.

* * *

**Bibis Bar, San José del Cabo – Earlier**

* * *

Mac is one of Veronica’s best-friends in the world and she would die for her. But, also, Mac is three frozen watermelon daiquiris deep, won’t stop talking about work, and keeps hogging the bowl of guacamole. So, Veronica might also kill her.

“The worst thing about it is –,” Mac pauses to double dip her chip in the guacamole (monster!), “is he’s right! I’m not going to call his bluff. And he knows it. The son of a bitch knows it.” She shoves the chip in her mouth.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Veronica says, sipping on her own daiquiri, “he has to know you could –”

“Martin’s an asshole but he’s not an idiot.” She reaches for another chip. “When I went to the complaint, HR practically had the NDA and settlement paperwork ready to sign.”

“Well, that’s evil.”

“That’s corporate America, baby. The banal kind of evil.”

“Henceforth banning the use of ‘baby’ in our friendship.”

Mac chugs the rest of her daiquiri and Veronica marvels at the lack of wince. The girl has to be feeling some brain freeze. Or maybe she’s so close to drunk she doesn’t notice. “That stupid fucking **_FUCKER_**!” Mac yells.

The shout garners attention from a couple of the other resort guests.

Veronica attempts to cover. “Her dog. Chewed her iPhone charger. _Again_.” Mac appears oblivious to Veronica’s selfless act, signalling the bartender for another daiquiri. “His name is Fucker. The dog.”

“Yeah it is,” Mac agrees.

Veronica makes eye contact with the guy sitting at a table directly behind Mac. His mouth tips up in a half-little – well, it’s not a smile, exactly. More like a smirk that has the potential to become a smile. He seems both amused and impressed by Mac’s outburst. Veronica rolls her eyes and tips her head in Mac’s direction with a _‘what can you do?’_ shrug of her shoulders. The guy’s smile lifts the slightest bit more. And that’s when the blonde sitting across from him appears to notice she’s lost her boyfriend’s attention.

His companion turns to look at her and Mac, and Veronica directs her attention back to her friend. Smiling at a perfect (handsome) stranger (who is clearly on a romantic trip with his girlfriend-fiancée-wife-or-something) is not her priority right now.

Except it’s hard to remain focused when said girlfriend-fiancée-wife-or-something comes up to the bar and positions herself directly beside Mac. The woman’s eyes are directed forward, waiting for the bartender to notice her, but Veronica’s the daughter of a cop – she recognizes an attempt to disguise surveillance.

“So my options are,” Mac continues, unaware of the complicated relationship dynamics Veronica has apparently stumbled into in the past 90 seconds, “stay, and thus continue to have Martin say something about my ass every time I walk out of a room, or, option two, sign the NDA, take the settlement, and leave.”

Mac’s succinct summary seems to confuse the woman (who is probably plotting to murder Veronica); her features twisting into a displeased moue.

The bartender sets the daiquiri in front of Mac but before she can take a sip, Veronica slides it away from her. “Let’s get you some food.”

“We’re in paradise. I can have another frozen-thingy if I want one.”

“We’re in paradise, but you are miserable.”

“No, I’m not.” At Veronica’s look of disbelief, Mac looks offended. “I’m not!”

“And you’re being petulant.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Okay.”

“ _You’re_ the one being petulant.”

Veronica rolls her eyes again, helping herself to a sip of Mac’s daiquiri. Once the bartender returns, she’ll order Mac some ceviche to soak up all the sugar and booze. Then tomorrow they can try vacation fun time once more.

(It’s not Mac’s fault that a cretin sexually harassed her a few days before their ‘Veronica’s no longer in grad-school debt!’ celebratory trip. Still, the timing could have been better.)

(Not that, Veronica thinks, there’s ever a _good_ time to be sexually harassed.)

Mac rests her head in her hands. “Oh, god,” she says. “I hear it. I _am_ being petulant.”

“I get it, Macky. Your choices suck.”

“Actually, you have more choices than you think.” Veronica had almost forgotten about the blonde woman (who probably wants to smash a martini glass over her head for smiling at the guy who, _yup_ , appears wildly entertained by the scene playing out) eavesdropping on their conversation. Mac looks poleaxed as the woman extends a hand to shake. “I’m Lilly. And I think you could use my help.”

* * *

**Ocean Side Junior Suite, San José del Cabo – 1:55 AM**

* * *

Veronica flips from her right side to her left. Seriously, how can one of the nicest places she’s ever been to in her entire life have rollaway beds that make her feel like she’s sleeping on knives? One of life’s mysteries.

She flips over onto her back. The squeaking of the mattress, and the springs, and the, well, _everything_ , is practically pornographic.

“Oh my god,” Logan groans. She hears his blankets rustle as he sits up. “Are you kidding me with that?”

She sits up, too. Her eyes are well enough adjusted to the dark that she can easily make out his shape in the center of the bed. “I told you it was a shitty mattress.”

“Then sleep on the couch.”

She points at the couch, defiant. “That thing? It’s barely wide enough to _sit_ on.”

“Well could you lie still long enough for me to fall asleep?”

“You think I’m enjoying myself?”

“I think you’re enjoying the fact that _I’m_ _not_ enjoying myself.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“So, you’re not flopping around like a fish because I won’t let you in the bed?”

“ _Please_. I don’t _do_ passive aggressive.”

He snorts. “How was storming out of the bar and refusing to talk to me not passive aggressive?”

“Because it wasn’t.”

“Sure. Either way, you’re not getting in this bed.”

“Fine!” she says, standing up from the bed. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Excellent.”

Perhaps the cot has tired of her long line of criticisms because no sooner does she stand than it snaps shut like a clam shell. The rickety metal frame claims her pillow, all her blankets, and a hair tie. _Death trap._ Logan has consigned her to a fate of sleeping on a death trap.

Pointed silence bounces off the walls of Logan’s suite. The bed has proven her point for her. Right? She doesn’t need to express to him how unreasonable it is that he wants her to sleep on the couch when she is a very tiny person who only needs a sliver of bed. Nope. Surely, he now understands that –

“—Close one,” Logan says. “Nighty night.” He flops back down onto the mattress.

“That’s it!?”

He props himself back up on his elbows. You would think the dark might make his face appear _less_ punchable. “Nighty night…schnookums?” Then he flips over onto his side, dismissing her once more.

She wrenches the pillow out from the tight clasp of the cot. She’s tempted to kick it, or push it over or _something_ , but based on how her night’s going she’d probably just hurt herself.

Whereas before she wasn’t purposefully making as much noise as possible, now it is her chief aim. She expects Logan to scold her, or maybe call her a pest. Something. But all he does is lay there.

Still, she can’t help, as she punches her pillow into submission, from trying one last time. “Is this any way to treat a new friend?”

In response, Logan lets out one long, comically fake snore.

She flops back on the couch, her arms tight across her chest. If they happen to be on the same boat snorkelling tomorrow, she’s going to spit in his goggles.

* * *

**Bibis Bar, San José del Cabo –Earlier**

* * *

“I’m Lilly. And I think you could use my help.”

Anyone else might sound cocky, but whoever this Lilly person is simply sounds _right_. At least Veronica believes her, and Veronica doesn’t believe anyone.

(Some people, primarily her ex-boyfriends, see this as a problem. She chooses to see it as a sign of her discerning taste in humanity.)

Mac, however, is clearly unimpressed by Lilly’s offer. Her expression has gone from blank to some variation of disgusted.

“Is that so?” Mac asks, dropping her hand.

“Yes.” Lilly turns away long enough to catch the bartender’s attention and order a Moscow Mule. She turns around and leans her elbows on the bar. So casual. Like she’s their friend as opposed to a stranger who walked up, said something vague, and then stood around waiting for acknowledgment.

“I know what this is,” Mac says.

“What is this?” Lilly asks.

“You with your blonde hair, and boobs, and red not-actually-a-dress see a sad lesbian at the bar, three daiquiris deep and think, ‘I’m on vacation. Maybe I’ll ditch my bland Ken doll six-pack-abs-wielding boyfriend,’” Mac pauses in order to make pointed eye contact with the guy still sitting at Lilly’s table.

The guy on whom Veronica was _sure_ Lilly was trying to stake a claim. But now – now Veronica has no idea what the hell is going on. The guy waves cheerfully and leans back in his seat.

“You think,” Mac continues, “‘I bet the sad lesbian doesn’t have anything better to do. I’ll make her a footnote in mine and Ken’s boring-ass marriage. And then, once I’ve popped out half a dozen kids, I’ll be able to look back fondly on my Katy Perry experience.’ Well, no thank you. I don’t _need_ that kind of help.”

Mac reaches for the daiquiri Veronica stole from her and pointedly takes a sip. Apparently, this is what Mac at her breaking point looks like.

“Mac,” Veronica says quietly, “I think we should go.”

“Well,” Lilly says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “That was entertaining as hell.” She leaves the bar to collect her purse from the table. Pulling out a business card as she walks, she slides it across the bar so it’s in Mac’s eyeline. Never one to miss an opportunity to snoop, Veronica leans over to read the card.

_Lilly Kane_

_Attorney at Law_

“What is happening right now?” Mac mutters to herself. She reaches for the card and her eyes dart from the card to Lilly (who is a lawyer), back to the card, and back to Lilly again.

“Am I to assume you are the ‘Kane’ at this Kane and Associates?” Veronica asks.

“One of them. Family business.” Lilly shrugs. “I specialize in employment law.” She dips her head, forcing Mac to make eye contact. “Anyone you know who might be interested in that?”

“I am so –”

Lilly cuts her off with a hand wave. “Nope. I’m going to give you this one.” She gestures to an empty table tucked away in a corner of the bar. “Want to tell me about this NDA?”

“Why? Why? Why, would you do that?”

“Because, because, because, you weren’t entirely wrong. I _did_ think the lesbian at the bar was cute.” _Damn._ If this woman could bottle her confidence. “Plus, my friend thinks your friend is cute. This gives him a chance to come and talk to her.”

Veronica darts her eyes to the guy who, at Lilly’s pronouncement, smacks a hand to his head. “Son of a bitch, Lils.” He manages to sound both endeared and annoyed by Lilly’s statement – a combination that speaks to shared history and deep affection.

“What’d I say?” she asks, all faux innocence. She puts out a hand, helping Mac off the barstool. “Let’s sober you up and talk of predatory assholes, shall we?”

As they walk to the table, Mac looks back to the bar. Veronica dismisses her look of worry with a ‘shoo,’ hand gesture and turns back around.

“My friend was wrong,” Lilly’s friend says in his approach to the bar. 

“You don’t think I’m cute?”

“Oh, I absolutely do. I just didn’t need her help to tell you that.” He puts out a hand in greeting. “Logan.”

She takes his hand and gives it a firm shake. “Veronica.”

“Buy you a drink?”

It’s an all-inclusive resort, but that doesn’t matter.

“How about I buy you one?”

* * *

**Ocean Side Junior Suite, San José del Cabo – 2:45 AM**

* * *

“Veronica?”

“Hmm?” she grumbles. “Go away.”

“Veronica. Wake up.”

“Why?”

“You fell off the couch.”

She opens her eyes.

Where is she? Why is she on the floor? And who is this man staring down at her?

Then it all clicks. Mac ditching her in the bar. The shitty cot. The somehow worse couch. And – Logan. He’s not smirking at her anymore. In fact, if her sleep addled mind is to be believed, he looks faintly concerned.

“I fell off the couch,” she says. Logan nods, and she groans as the realization sets in. “This night just keeps getting better.” All she needs to do is belch in his face and her evening of humiliation will be complete.

She moves to sit up and Logan helps her, pressing a steady hand to her back.

“How did that not wake you up?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“Hard sleeper.”

“Obviously.”

She props herself up against the couch. Logan sits beside her in the same position. She plays with the hem of the shirt Logan leant her to sleep in, rolling the seam between her fingers. Should she head back to her room? Bang on the door until Mac lets her in?

“My dad got remarried when I was a kid, and my new step-brother and I insisted on sharing a room. Begged my dad for bunkbeds. Which he then made for us.” She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her cheek there as she looks at Logan. “Wallace wanted the top bunk. But I’m four-months older than him, so I insisted I got it instead. I think I fell off every night for a week straight before my dad unstacked the beds.”

“Why didn’t Wallace just take the top?”

She huffs out a quiet laugh at the memory. “I think I traumatized the guy. Every night I’d fall out of bed, hit the floor, and somehow stay asleep. Can you imagine that? Every night as an eight-year old? Being dead asleep and your new sister falls out of the sky and hits the floor.”

“Poor guy.”

“I like to think that early brush with fear has motivated him to succeed in life.”

“I’ll buy that.”

Veronica bats Logan’s foot with hers. “You wear socks when you sleep?”

“Only in hotels. I don’t like my feet touching the floor if I need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

“That’s what slippers are for.”

“Normally I sleep naked.” He shrugs. “Being buck naked except for slippers is weird.”

“Whereas buck naked except for socks is –?”

“A fashion statement.” Logan stands and extends his hands towards her. 

“What?”

“Clearly you can’t be trusted to sleep somewhere that _isn’t_ a bed.”

“You big softie.”

“This offer expires in 5…4…3…” Veronica places her hands in his and he pulls her up smoothly.

Maybe if it was earlier in the night there would be more ceremony. (Or maybe if she hadn’t left him in the bar. Or yelled at him. She maintains it was a _dignified_ yelling.) As it is, they’re both exhausted, so they just crawl into bed.

They’re stock still for the first several minutes. Veronica’s afraid to shift in the event she accidentally brushes or kicks or touches something she shouldn’t. She takes a few deep breaths, reminding herself she knows how to sleep. Has done it quite successfully almost her whole life. She’s just starting to drift off when Logan’s whisper wakes her up.

“Veronica?”

“Yeah?”

He goes quiet again. “I didn’t even know who that woman was. I think she was drunk, and I was trying to help her back to her table. Next thing I knew, she kissed me.”

She lets herself relax into the mattress, turning onto her right side so she can make out Logan’s profile in the dark. “Okay.”

He turns his head to look at her. “You believe me?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“Sure as hell made me work for it.”

“I’m a little prickly. And I’m sorry for yelling.”

“If it’s any comfort, it was a very dignified yelling.”

“I knew it!”

He smiles in response, and then that apparently settled, closes his eyes. She watches the tiny twitches of his eyelids, and the steady rise of his breath as he relaxes. It would be the _nice_ thing to do. To let him sleep.

“Logan?”

He keeps his eyes closed. “Yeah?”

“Do you think mermaids give birth to merbabies? Or do they lay eggs?”

He turns his head slowly. Opens his eyes. Blinks once. Twice. Lets out a deep breath. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

* * *

**Bibis Bar, San José del Cabo –Earlier**

* * *

After the initial handshakes, hellos, and offers of drink buying, Veronica and Logan were on the path to socially acceptable but ultimately boring conversation.

They easily cover the “what do _you_ do?” and “what brings you to Mexico?” and “so you’re travelling with a friend?” conversation streams.

Logan asks her about her family and that’s when Veronica decides she’s had enough. She is not on her second margarita with an incredibly attractive man _in paradise_ to talk about her dad and stepmom.

(Once Veronica gets four-margaritas deep, she has the tendency to want to talk about her biological mom, and that never leads anywhere good. Which is why she’s stopping with two.)

(At four-margaritas deep, she is also liable to tell Logan that she finds him handsome. Handsome in a way that’s kind of annoying, to be honest. Obviously, there’s the general rule that alcohol has the ability to make a relatively handsome man significantly more so, but that’s not what’s happening here; it’s like his handsome was hiding. He’s sneaky handsome. The more she looks at his face the more she likes it. She also really wants to press his ear to the side of his head to see if it springs back, but she’s pretty sure that’s 100% the alcohol talking.)

“This conversation sucks,” Veronica says.

“Agreed.”

“New rule. Dumb questions only.”

“Dumb as in –?”

“What is the best animal? And why is it a red fox panda?”

“Oh, so you meant _dumb._ ”

And that’s how it goes. With the occasional real question thrown in for kicks, always sandwiched between faux philosophical questions like “can God make a muffin so big he can’t eat it?” and truly inane ones like “would you rather fight 100 duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?”

“Let’s say you and a guy have a great first date.” 

She snorts. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

“What is something the guy could do on the second date to make it so he doesn’t get a third?”

“Are you strategizing to get a second date, or strategizing to get me to blow you off?”

“What makes you think this is a date?”

She raises an eyebrow in response. They’ve rotated their barstools to face one another. One of his feet is resting on the cross bar of her stool, bringing them even closer. And as they’ve discovered they’re both in Mexico for the rest of the week, she doesn’t anticipate that kind of entanglement ending anytime soon.

This is a date.

“If a guy on a second date didn’t want a third date?” She hums in consideration and reaches for her water. “He would pick me up.”

Logan frowns. “As in drive to your house to pick you up for a date?”

“No. Literally pick me up. As in, lift me off the ground.”

“That’s a move.”

“I’m short. I get that I’m short. But guys seem to get some sort of sick pleasure in hugging me and then, the next thing I know, my feet are dangling in the air. Makes me feel like a kid.”

“And the person who helped you discover this aversion was –?”

“College boyfriend. I told him I didn’t like it. He thought I was picking a fight.”

“Ah. Yes. Faux outrage. A good tactic for avoiding responsibility for any of your actions.”

“Exactly. How did –?”

Logan tips his head towards the table where Lilly and Mac are still talking. While the first hour or so the two women were hushed and serious, they must have switched topics because she’s pretty sure she just heard Mac snort.

“That was how Lilly ended arguments when we dated in high school.”

She tries to act disinterested. Like this little bit of information about his dating history doesn’t fascinate her endlessly. “Yeah, well, I think my dad is still hoping Piz and I are going to get back together, and we–” At his look of confusion, Veronica stops. “What?”

“I’m sorry. Did you say _Piz_?”

“It was a nickname.” Before he can ask, she puts a hand up. “His real name was worse somehow.”

Logan chuckles softly, and then tilts his head back to finish his pint of beer.

A man’s neck has never made her feel dizzy before. _Warning! Warning!_ The thought comes out of nowhere, and she’s got to leave. Immediately.

“It’s getting late,” she says, jumping down from her barstool. “I need to go. I should go to bed.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I –”

The bartender interrupts to inform her and Logan it’s last call for food and drinks. She should decline. Say no thank you, finish her water, and then suggest to Logan that she and Mac can meet him and Lilly tomorrow for lunch. But then Logan smiles at her in a way that leaves her light-headed. It’s innocent and yet somehow indecent at the same time. God. That should be illegal.

“What do you say?” Logan asks, leaning closer. “One more drink and some cheesecake before we go?”

She shouldn’t. But, oh boy does she want to. In the split-second of her hesitation, Logan’s smile fades. Just a little. As strange as it seems, that momentary indecision is what convinces her to stay.

“Yeah,” she says with a nod. “Why not?”

His smile is wider. Brighter. Like that’s the best damn thing he’s ever heard. Man. A girl could get used to someone looking at her like that.

* * *

**Ocean Side Junior Suite, San José del Cabo – 3:05 AM**

* * *

“You’re rich, right?”

Logan sighs. “I knew you were only into me for my money.”

“Who says I’m into you at all?”

He brushes his thumb across her cheekbone and then down along her jaw. She holds her breath, waiting to see what he’ll do next, but he just tucks his hands under his pillow, readjusting to lay on his stomach.

“Call it a hunch.”

Did he just –? “You cocky son of a–”

“And while I firmly believe wealth is in the eye of the beholder, by all accounts yes, I am rich.”

“Why is it, then, that you are in the most basic suite with only a double bed to your name? I mean, even Mac and I have an ocean view.”

With the bedside lamp turned back on, Veronica notices his stubble is a shade lighter than his hair. Looks a little gingery, even, in the dim light of the room.

“Lilly dared me.”

“To stay in the most basic room at an all-inclusive resort?”

He nods, his cheek pressed against his pillow. “She said I was too fussy to go without all the amenities of one of the casitas.”

“So, to prove to your friend, who is in fact staying in one of those oceanfront casitas, you booked a more basic room.”

“Yup.”

“Money is so wasted on the wealthy. You know that, right?”

“You think you’d be a better rich person?”

“Absolutely. I’d be the perfect combination of frivolous and sensible.”

“I’m sure.”

“What is the stupidest thing you’ve ever spent money on?”

He considers her question. “I subscribed to a luxury toilet paper service for close to a year.”

“I’m sorry. A what?”

“Every month I received luxury toilet paper infused with vitamins and minerals for a gentler, softer, bathroom experience.” He shrugs. “Your eyes are judgy, but I maintain it was worth it.”

“Why’d you cancel?”

“The company went under.”

“Who could have seen that coming?” She’s about to ask Logan to regale her with more stories of dumb rich people stuff when he yawns, big and wide and totally ridiculous. “Tired?” she asks needlessly.

“I’ve been tired this whole time. Do you not require sleep?”

“I’ll circle back to sleepy eventually.”

“How long will that take?”

“Hard to say.”

Logan closes his eyes. “Well, close your eyes and see if that inspires you to sleep.”

She likes this better, actually. Him with his eyes closed in the dim light of the room. It gives her plenty of time to catalogue the details of him. To contemplate how the whole of Logan is greater than the sum of his parts. She brushes a thumb along his hairline, fascinated by the smattering of faint freckles there. Signs of a man who has spent plenty of time in the sun.

At the brush of her fingers against his skin, he opens his eyes. Veronica doesn’t know how (because she’s fairly certain hers has gone all big-eyed fearful), but his expression remains neutral.

“I have no idea what compelled me to do that,” she says.

“I have a pretty good idea.”

It wouldn’t take much effort on either of their parts for their lips to meet. A scant few inches separate them. Veronica doesn’t even remember them drifting towards the middle of the bed.

“Don’t kiss me. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead.

* * *

**Outside Veronica’s Suite, San José del Cabo –Earlier**

* * *

There is a way to handle disagreements with new friends maturely, and then there is the way that Veronica is choosing to handle hers with Logan.

She’s not _completely_ lacking in self-awareness. She’s just currently lacking the ability to pull her crazy train back into the station. So, she moves ahead. Or, as this particular circumstance requires, sprints ahead.

She looks behind her to see if Logan is still chasing after her on the beach. Sandals in one hand, purse slapping against her thigh.

“Stop following me, you psychopath!”

“You have my phone,” he calls back.

Okay. Well. _That_ is going to be a hard one to come back from.

(The spontaneous midnight sprint was not planned. What came before was first an awareness that Lilly and Mac had left the bar without saying goodnight. Maybe, Veronica thought, the two women didn’t want to interrupt her and Logan’s pretty blatant flirting. The bar closed; Logan suggested a late-night walk. He excused himself to the restroom. She noticed Logan left his phone behind and she put it in her purse for safekeeping. Then, upon deciding she too could use the restroom, she stumbled upon Logan pressed up against a wall in the hallway to the bathroom. Some busty brunette attacking his face like the mysteries of the universe were written on the roof of his mouth.)

(“Sweetie,” Veronica said, “if you’re going to make out with another woman the night before our wedding, you could at least have the decency to do it somewhere private.”)

(Logan pushed the woman away and Veronica ran for the beach.)

Veronica stops running and Logan catches up to her easily. She avoids eye contact as she fishes his phone out of her bag and hands it to him.

“Veronica, that wasn’t –”

“Don’t speak to me.” It comes out more pouty than defiant, but she blames that on the last drink she had. Which, now that she’s listing grievances, is _also_ Logan’s fault.

She starts walking (more like stomping) back towards the hotel. He’s still behind her, can hear his steps in the sand, but he doesn’t attempt to catch up to her.

“Why are you following me?”

“We’re staying in the same hotel.”

This is fine. She is doing _fine._ “Right.”

“Also, it’s one in the morning. If you think I’m leaving you on the beach by yourself, you’re delusional.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

She keeps stomping. He easily keeps pace with her fastest power walk. They’re silent through the elevator ride and the short walk to her room. Logan remains silent as he leans against a wall in the hallway, watching as she searches for her key. Well, he remains silent for a while at least.

“That wasn’t what you thought it was,” he says.

“Oh, I know what it was.”

“Really? So, you saw me trying to push her away?”

She scoffs, takes the key out of her purse, and inserts it in the key reader. “Have a great trip, Logan. I hope you cut your foot on a barnacle.”

It all happens in an upsettingly quick sequence: she opens the door, finds the extra door latch prevents her from opening it fully, hears a laugh, a moan and–

“Mac, are you fucking kidding me! This is what ‘do not disturb signs’ are for.”

Another giggle. Someone runs to the door and slams it shut. Then whoever is on the other side of the door unlatches it, swings it open and – yup, _that_ is Lilly and _those_ are Lilly’s boobs. Veronica looks up at the hallway ceiling. 

“Oops,” Lilly says, slipping the ‘do not disturb sign’ on the door handle and then closing the door.

Veronica knocks on the door several times in rapid succession. Each knock is ignored. “This is ridiculous.”

“This is Lilly on vacation.”

“It has to be an ethical violation of some sort to sleep with your lawyer, right?” 

“Think of it more as a real hands on approach to practicing law.”

Veronica groans, slumping against the wall. “Do I wait for them to finish?”

“Um, knowing Lilly, that is going to take a while.”

She hits her head on the wall several times. “I did not want to know that.” This is not how she saw this night going. Not that she had a fully formed idea of _how_ it was going to end. But standing outside of her own hotel suite as her friend sexes someone she just met was nowhere on her vacation bingo card.

“Things could be worse.” 

She scoffs. “How do you figure?”

“Well now you’ll get the distinct privilege of waking up to my face in the morning.” He pushes off the wall and stands beside her, extending an elbow. “Shall we? Roomie?”

* * *

**Ocean Side Junior Suite, San José del Cabo – 6:30 AM**

* * *

Veronica wakes to the sound of her phone alarm. The high-pitched and incessant trill is grating on the best day, but after a night where she’s had too little sleep it’s torture.

“Stop.” She squeezes her eyes shut. _Stop. Ringing._ No matter how hard she concentrates, it continues to ring. “Why?” she groans.

“I forgot I set it.” At first Veronica can’t place the male voice, all sleep gravelled and low. But then the events of the previous night (and the very early morning) come back to her in vivid color.

Logan. That’s Logan’s voice. She cuddled with Logan in bed and now she knows what his voice sounds like first thing in the morning. And those arms wrapped tightly around her waist must be Logan’s arms. She opens her eyes. And the navy shirt which she has, _eww_ , apparently drooled on must be Logan’s shirt.

She drums her fingers on his chest. “Logan. You need to make it stop.”

He swings an arm out to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and shuts off the alarm, somehow keeping his eyes closed the whole time.

“Why?” she asks. They can’t have slept for more than two, maybe three hours. After she told Logan not to kiss her, they wriggled closer together, whispering more of their dumb thoughts and dumb secrets in the quiet of the room. He held her hand to his chest. She traced the asymmetrical ridges on the bridge of his nose. Then she fell asleep to the sensation of Logan rubbing gentle circles on her lower back.

It was all disgustingly wholesome and romantic. While on a meta-level she hated herself, on an experiential level she loved it.

“Surfing,” he says.

“That sounds like a terrible idea.” She nuzzles his shirt and closes her eyes again. “Sleep.”

(She owes the manufacturer of those rollaway beds a huge debt. Maybe the hotel will sell it to her. The she can melt the bedframe down and turn it into a commemorative plaque.)

“I want to go before the beach gets too crowded.”

Logan hugs her tight before he slips out of bed. As he gathers his things for the day, Veronica’s mind hovers in that liminal space between awake and sleep. Faintly hears the sounds of a dresser drawer closing, of teeth being brushed, before she feels the mattress bend with his weight.

She cracks one eye open. A man really shouldn’t be allowed to look that handsome both so early in the morning and after so little sleep.

“Meet for lunch later?” he asks.

She nods. “At the café?”

“Perfect.” She closes her eyes, thinks he’s already left, but then she feels the press of his lips to her forehead. Hears the sound of something being gently set down on the bedside table.

After a few additional hours of sleep, she wakes to discover what Logan left for her: a glass of water, her phone connected to the wireless charging station, and what looks like a bag of chocolate covered pretzels from the mini bar.

She presses her smile into the pillow.

Okay, maybe she can find it in her heart to forgive Mac _a little_.

* * *

**Veronica’s Suite, San José del Cabo – 11:00 AM**

* * *

Veronica stands outside of her suite, hesitant to enter. What, or who, is she going to find in there? The do not disturb sign is no longer on the door. That’s promising.

She knocks on the door. Silence. Knocks again. Silence. Taking a deep breath, she inserts her key and cracks the door open.

“Mac?” No response. She opens the door wider, and walks in. “Anyone here?”

Housekeeping’s clearly already visited for the day, the bed remade, and the complimentary basket of snacks replenished.

“I hope they changed the sheets,” Veronica mumbles.

* * *

**La Laguna Café, San José del Cabo – 11:45 AM**

* * *

Veronica steps into the resort’s ocean view café in search of coffee. She and Logan didn’t sort out precisely what time they were going to meet, but she’s got a book and no plans. She can wait for him to find her.

It’s the presence of Mac and Lilly in the cafe, both drinking what looks like Bloody Mary’s as Lilly furiously scribbles notes, that takes her by surprise.

If she goes over there, she’s going to say something rude (how has Mac _still_ not texted to make sure she was okay?). Best to reserve that aggression for when it’s just her and Mac alone. She’ll go to the other side of the café, pretend she didn’t see them, and –

“Veronica!”

So much for that. She looks to their table where Mac is beaming, waving her over. It’s such a departure from last night’s sad-drunk-Mac that she finds it hard to maintain her annoyance. But, she’s a determined woman: she’ll power through.

Veronica returns the greeting with a half-hearted wave but opts to sit at one of the high-top tables with a view out to the water. She scans the ocean, trying to identify Logan in the sea of surfers, but at this distance it’s impossible to pick him out.

By the time she’s placed her order for a cappuccino and a sweet bread, Mac has made her way across the café to her table.

“You don’t want to sit with us?”

She rolls her eyes. “Mac.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, okay? I should have told you I was leaving last night, it was just –”

“You think I’m annoyed because you left without telling me?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’m not your mother.”

“Oh,” Mac says, looking faintly surprised. “Then why?”

“You _sexiled_ me!”

“No, I didn’t.” Mac looks around the café. “Also, shhh.”

“Don’t you shush me. Tell me, what would _you_ call locking someone out of your shared hotel room so you could have sex?”

“You were with Logan. I thought maybe –”

“You assumed I’d be okay staying the night with a guy I’d known for only a few hours?”

“I guess when you put it that way,” Mac says, shifting her weight from side to side. “Are you really upset? Or are you trying to make me feel bad so I don’t make you do sunrise yoga?”

Veronica stops to consider that. Is she upset? Yes. Did it end up being okay? Yes. Is she willing to freeze Mac out for the rest of the week? No. She sighs. “It’s a solid sixty-forty.”

“Yeah. That’s fair.” She takes a step closer to Veronica and lowers her voice. “It just sort of _happened._ But I am sorry. Really.”

Veronica looks over to Lilly’s table. The woman looks wholly unperturbed by her role in last night’s shenanigans, sipping on a cocktail and looking out towards the beach. “Did she happen to mention the California state bar’s stance on lawyers having sex with their clients?”

“She says it’s perfectly legal as long as the consensual sexual relationship existed prior to the start of the lawyer-client relationship.”

“Nice pillow talk.”

“I also don’t think she’s technically my lawyer.”

“Why not?”

“Pretty sure I can’t afford her.”

“Well, if the two of you find yourself in another after-hour’s strategy session, could you _please_ do it in her room? The rollaway beds in this place are shit.”

She doesn’t mention the failed couch attempt or eventually sharing Logan’s bed. Maybe later, after she’s finished making Mac squirm.

“I promise.” Mac gestures to their table. “You want to join us now?”

“No. I think I’ll hold this against you for a couple more hours.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mac says dismissively, already walking back to her table. “Text when you’re done hating me? I want to go into town.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she answers, imitating Mac.

The server brings Veronica her coffee and pastry and she turns her attention back to the water. Just as she gives up on finding Logan in the mass of humanity, one surfer perfectly times a decently sized wave and rides it almost all the way into shore. With a certainty she can’t quite explain, she knows it was Logan. The certainty grows as he tucks his board under his arm and walks out of the shallow water, up onto the sand.

Logan is in the group of surfers wearing boardshorts as opposed to a wetsuit. His are a dark gray with some sort of 70s inspired stripes down the sides. A much better look than the guy who just passed in front of her wearing some sort of blue hotpants. How? And also, why?

She guesses Logan’s not planning to come to the café. Likely has plans to shower and change before meeting her, but as he crosses in front of her table, well-within shouting distance, she calls out.

“Hey striped-trunks!” Logan turns around looking for the source of the voice. When he spots her, he smiles. She beckons him over.

Somewhere across the café, she’s sure there’s a very smug Lilly and a very curious Mac vying for her attention, but she doesn’t care.

“Hey there,” he says as he approaches. The café has a strict ‘no wet swimwear policy’ so he stays below on the walkway. 

She leans over the railing. “Where’d you get those delts?”

“Reading.”

“Reading?”

“They were _very_ heavy books.”

“I’ll bet.”

He smiles up at her. “See you in 30?”

“I’ll save you a seat.”

* * *

**Veronica’s Suite, San José del Cabo – 11:15 PM**

* * *

“Are you ever going to let her in?” Logan asks, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Right on cue, she receives a text from Mac. Veronica pauses the movie.

_11:16 PM – Mac to Veronica  
_ _You are being ridiculous._

_11:17 PM – Veronica to Mac  
_ _New phone. Who’s this?_

She grabs Logan’s arm, wraps it around her shoulder, and presses play. “I’ll let her in after the printer smash scene.”

“You’re a little diabolical, aren’t you?”

She tilts her face up for a kiss, and Logan happily obliges. “You like it.”

“Oh, I’m really starting to.”


	4. Courage laced with alcohol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song title from Blind Pilot's "[Oviedo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qyoxYEM3mI)." And the prompt is inspired by one from [this list](https://nevertothethird.tumblr.com/post/618822256716595200/more-au-ideas) of AU prompts on Tumblr.
> 
> This is _barely_ edited, but I was determined to have it qualify for secret relationship before my favorite trope was kicked into the ether.

With each pass through the living room it becomes increasingly difficult for Veronica to ignore Mac’s judgmental stare. It’s the worst kind of judgmental stare because Mac denies its existence. At least Veronica has the decency to own _her_ judgmental nature. Mostly.

“I’m almost done,” Veronica tells her.

“Take your time.”

Or, that’s what Mac says with her _mouth_. Her carefully constructed mask of indifference and airy tone belie a whole host of feelings. She can’t fool Veronica with her _laissez faire_ Matthew McConaughey naked bongo vibes.

One more loop through the apartment should do it. She knows Piz left a copy of _Infinite Jest_ behind; his hints she should read it were none too subtle. In her search for the book, she finds one of his band’s t-shirts under her bed and tosses that in the direction of the paper grocery bag.

Now, where in the _hell_ is that – “Oh!” she cries in triumph. Her nightstand was a little wobbly and she’s pretty sure she used it to stabilize one of the legs. Probably not what Piz had in mind when he told her it would change her life. She adds the book to the mini stash of his belongings and resolves to buy a new bedside table. Farewell David Foster Wallace. She barely knew thee.

Well, to be fair, she barely new Piz either.

“Alright,” Veronica says, returning to the living room. “Done.” She sets the bag by front door and pours herself a glass of the wine. “Mexican or pizza?” Mac stares at her, her mouth slightly agape. “What?”

“That’s it?”

“You wanted… _more_ dinner options?”

“Veronica.”

She sips her wine. “Yes?”

“You and Piz broke up?”

“We were hardly together.”

Mac scoffs. “Then how is it he left behind so much stuff?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” She retrieves a few takeout menus from her menus, batteries, and scotch tape drawer. “Is this what we’re going to do all night? You’re going to give me shit for ending a relationship I didn’t care about?”

“I thought you liked Piz.”

“I liked that he played guitar. And, in an ironic sort of way, I liked his Zac Efron throwback hair.” She shrugs. “We had fun.”

“Have you noticed a pattern with your exes?”

She pauses the very important work of shuffling through the menus. (Indian food? Chicken korma sounds good.) “What do you mean?”

Mac holds up a finger “Jeff moved to Wyoming to work on a cattle ranch.” She holds up a second. “Troy dropped out of Hearst without telling anyone.” A third. “Leo transferred to a new sheriff’s department.” Four. “Now Piz –”

“Oh, I see the pattern.” She hands Mac a menu from the new Korean place around the corner. “I tell guys I’m not interested in anything serious; they date me hoping I’ll change my mind, and then hold it against me when I don’t. Is that the pattern you mean?” Mac at least has the decency to look a little guilty.

“I didn’t mean –”

“If you’re not pretending to be a vegetarian tonight, I hear that place has great fried chicken.”

* * *

“Wow. You did a number on her.”

Logan ignores the comment. He removes the caps from his beer and the pear cider he only keeps on hand for Parker then heads back into the living room. Parker is sprawled in his favorite chair, something she knows is strictly forbidden, but she did him a solid tonight. He can take the couch for once.

He hands her the bottle of cider and flops back on the couch, reaching for the remote. “Did you watch season three of _Stranger Things_? Worth my time or skippable?” When she doesn’t respond he stops his Netflix scrolling. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“What? I’ve been busy.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about _Stranger Things_ , Logan. I’m talking about the sobbing woman I just helped into an Uber.”

“‘Sobbing’ is overstating it, don’t you think?”

“How you would describe it?”

This is the worst part. It’s not so much the breaking up that’s hard for him as it is the inevitable look of disappointment on Parker’s face. He works at the beer label with his thumbnail.

“If asked, I would say that Sarah was a very sweet woman who was perhaps more invested than I anticipated.”

Parker snorts, taking a snip of her cider. “That’s an understatement.”

“What was I supposed to do, Parker?” At her look of confusion, Logan continues. “I wasn’t going to drive to Colorado for Sarah’s parents 35th wedding anniversary just because it’s the nice thing to do.”

“But you –”

“Did nothing wrong? Yeah, I agree.

She sighs. A tell-tale sign that on some level she knows he’s right but refuses to acknowledge it. “Maybe you should take a break from the whole dating thing. You’re developing a bit of a reputation.”

“I will not be slut-shamed by you or anyone, Parker Lee.” He resumes scrolling through his Netflix queue. “Now, _Stranger Things_ season three. Yes or no?”

“It’s fine.”

Logan shakes his head. “Season three, man.” He turns off the TV. “Let’s go to a movie.”

“Sure,” she says breezily, standing up, “But only if I can mix Milk Duds in with the popcorn.”

“As long as you get your own popcorn.”

“You know I can never finish my own.”

“Fine. But we are _not_ getting Diet Coke.”

“Fine,” she reaches for her jacket. “Did I tell you I found a roommate?”

“That’s got to be a relief.”

“Remember my friend Mac?”

He shakes his head. “Should I?”

“She was going to get a place of her own, but I convinced her of my value.”

“The fact that your place has a pool probably doesn’t hurt.”

“Nor does my sparkling personality.”

“When is she moving in?”

“A couple weeks. You should come by and meet her. For real this time.” At Logan’s raised eyebrow and extra smarmy smile, Parker groans. “Don’t even _joke_ about that. My house is a Logan Echolls charm-free zone.”

“Nowhere is a Logan Echolls charm free zone.”

* * *

“Okay,” Veronica says, “I got it.”

“You don’t got it.”

“No. No, I do.” She places a piece of pizza crust on her nose. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Count me off.”

“3…2…1…go!”

Veronica flicks her chin up in the air and sends the piece of crust flying. Somehow, she misjudged the angle, so she has to lean back further than she anticipated. She lands on her back, her mouth wide open, and the crust lands neatly in her mouth. She kicks a leg up into the air in celebration. “Judges scores?” she asks.

“Nine-point-zero, nine-point-one, eight-point-nine, and six-point-two.”

She sits up, indignant. “Six-point-two? That damn Russian judge?”

“No. It was France.”

“Surprising.”

“I think they’re still made about that whole ‘freedom-fries’ thing?”

“Get _over_ it, guys.” She peels off into a burst of laughter, Logan joining her.

“What the hell is going on?” Parker asks.

“I don’t like this at all,” Mac says.

Veronica and Logan turn their heads to find Parker and Mac scowling at them from their positions on the couch.

“What?” Veronica asks.

“What did we do?”

“Aside from getting pizza crust all over our living room floor?” Parker asks.

“It’s hardwood.”

Veronica lowers her voice. “I think they’re just mad they weren’t able to nail the technique.”

“Sore losers.”

“Precisely.”

“Stop it!” Parker shouts.

“Did you see this happening?” Mac asks Parker, waving a hand frantically between Veronica and Logan. If Veronica’s not mistaken, she sounds a little…well, panicked isn’t the right word, but it’s close. 

“Did _you_?”

“Saw what coming?” Logan asks.

“Well,” Mac says, looking to Parker. “Parker and I kind of thought you guys would hate each other.”

“Huh,” Veronica says. “Why?”

“Well, no offense –” Parker says.

Logan scoots closer to Veronica; leans in conspiratorially. “She says before saying something offensive –” She snorts, to which Parker glares.

“Logan’s my best-friend, but he’s also – he’s also –” she trails off, and then gestures up and down his body. “Well, look at him! He’s an entitled, directionless slacker with really good hair.”

“And an even tan. Please don’t forget the tan.”

“Sunless?” Veronica asks.

He lifts up his shirt and smacks his stomach. His abs are that quintessential California-surfer light gold. “Natural, doll.”

Veronica grimaces. “Don’t call me doll. Makes you sound like a slimy Hollywood agent from the 1930s.”

“And, Veronica.” Oooh, apparently it’s _her_ turn; this time with Mac leading the charge. “You know I love you, but you also have a superiority complex powerful enough to be a renewable resource.”

“I’m strangely touched by that.” She rises to her knees, hands on her hips, and turns to Logan. “Do you think I have a superiority complex?”

“I barely know you.”

“But in the little time we’ve spent together, what do you think?” She beckons him closer with a wave of her fingers. “Be honest.”

“We’ve spent an hour playing this dumb game because my party trick annoyed you.”

“This is true.” She tilts her head. “What about you? Are you as dumb as you look?”

“I’m as dumb as you want me to be.”

“How offended should we be that our best-friends supposedly think so little of us?”

He turns towards Mac and Parker, presses a finger to his cupid’s bow as he contemplates the question. “Not sure. Want to go get a drink and talk it over?”

“No!” Mac and Parker shout in unison.

Mac jumps up the from the couch. “Veronica is leaving.”

“I am?”

“Yes. You are.”

“What a coincidence,” Logan says. “I’m leaving, too.”

“No,” Mac says. “Veronica is leaving, and I am going with her. To go get dessert.”

“We are?” Mac stomps over to where she’s sitting and roughly yanks her up by the elbow. “I’m not actually hun –”

“You are going to order a hot fudge sundae and you’re going to like it.” Mac tugs her towards the door.

“Apparently I’m leaving,” Veronica says, narrowly reaching for her purse as Mac drags her towards the front door.

“Maybe I’ll get your number from –”

Mac practically screams at Logan’s words, pushes Veronica out the door, and slams it behind her.

* * *

Once the door slams shut Logan turns to Parker with his most charming smile. “Parker –”

“No.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“What’s going to happen is what always happens except this time the person’s heart you stomp on is going to be my roommate’s best-friend.”

“You don’t know that.” Parker folds her arms across her chest and glares at him. “I mean it! Just because that’s what –”

“Not her, Logan. I’m serious.”

He sighs, flopping himself back on her living room floor. “God, you’re a buzzkill.”

* * *

“Logan seems nice.”

“No.”

“No, he’s _not_ nice?” Veronica asks.

“I am being serious, Veronica. Take your black widow thing and direct it elsewhere.”

“ _What_ black widow thing?”

“You know what I’m talking about it.”

“If I did, which I’m not saying I do, but if I did, I’m pretty sure Logan Echolls could handle it.”

Mac massages her temples, her expression pained. It would be inappropriate to laugh at Mac’s misery. Right? “I’m begging you –”

She raises her hands in concession. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“It’s not like there’s a shortage of handsome surfers in California.” Veronica shrugs. “I’ll cope.”

* * *

Logan steps out onto the back deck of Parker’s house. As he shuts the sliding glass door behind him, he shuts in the cacophony of party noise. God, he loves the girl, really, but her proclivity for insanely loud party games is not something he can support.

Inside the house, Parker is gathering people for a PG-13 version of musical chairs. He doesn’t regret leaving the game. He does regret leaving the game without –

“You look like you could use a drink.”

– a drink.

“God?” He turns in the direction of the voice. Veronica sits on the far side of the deck, her legs hanging over the edge. The deck lights keep her mostly in shadow.

She holds out a red cup in invitation. “Want to share?” He smiles, crossing the deck to sit beside her and takes the cup. “I have been warned against conversing with you.”

“Funny. I got a similar warning.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Parker says I make women fall in love with me and then dump them unceremoniously.” He hands her the cup and she takes a sip. “Never be best-friends with a psych major.”

“What do you think?” Veronica asks.

“I think Parker means well.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Pretty intense party chat.”

She takes another sip of the beer and hands it back. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Once. I’ve been in love once. It ended pretty spectacularly.”

“Infidelity?”

“That, too. But, as much as the whole thing fucking sucked, I know what it feels like now.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“What about you?”

“Have I ever been in love?”

“Well, I was mostly wondering why Mac wants you to stay away from me.”

“She calls me the black widow.”

“Because of your love for Scarlet Johannson?”

“The guys I date kind of vanish.” Logan’s eyes go wide in faint admiration. _That_ can’t be a healthy impulse. She rolls her eyes at his reaction. “As in they leave California.” She pulls her knees up to her chest. “Piz is currently two weeks into a 60-day silent retreat somewhere in rural Canada.”

“In October? Sounds chilly.”

“If it gets the guy to stop texting me song lyrics, I’m all for it.” She rests her cheek on her knee. “I think I’ve _almost_ been in love. Maybe once.” This woman is _very_ dangerous. He sees that now. But, he probably needs to spend a little more time with her just to be sure.

“It’s a little offensive, when you think about it,” she says after a few seconds of silence.

“It’s offensive even when you _don’t_ think about it.”

“I mean, you’re an adult. I’m an adult. If we get along and want to be friends, who are Mac and Parker to tell us not to?”

“Exactly. Plus, I could find you repulsive.”

“And I could find you to be a morally bankrupt elitist asshole.”

“Incisive.”

“That is a direct quote from Parker via Mac to me.”

“What are they? Our parents?” He drinks the rest of the beer, tossing the red cup behind him. “Want to get out of here?”

“And go where?”

“There’s a 24-hour diner a couple blocks away. Best pancakes you’ll ever have.”

“If Mac and Parker find out we left this party together, they will kill us.”

He stands up, brushes the dust off of his jeans, and extends a hand. She blinks up at him; open blue eyes shrewder than she lets on. Dangerous. “So, we don’t tell them.”

* * *

Veronica idly flicks through a rack of sweaters. Picks up a red one with some sort of embroidered fish thing on the shoulder, holds it up to her torso, puts it back. Does the same with the black one (this one adorned with a daisy), and tosses it into her hand basket.

She’s vaguely aware that Mac is talking, but her mind is currently occupied by two more pressing concerns. Concern one is the disappointing selection of Target’s winterwear, and concern two, _god help her_ , has something to do with pancakes.

She’s been doing pretty well thus far: listens for a few minutes, offers a few vague comments, and then lets her mind wander. Most often it wanders to an open invitation in her text chain with Logan. An open invitation she is _not_ planning to accept. Because while she disagrees with Mac and Parker trying to police their behavior, she gets that a breakup of any kind could make things awkward. She’s not a monster. 

And she’s probably due to offer Mac a verbal affirmation. “Uh huh,” she says.

Mac abruptly stops in the aisle. “I’m sorry, what?”

“What?” Veronica asks. “I was agreeing with you.”

“I tell you Wallace is considering staying on the east coast after graduation, and your only response is ‘uh huh’?”

“Wait, what?”

“Welcome back,” Mac says. At least she sounds good-natured about it. “Where is your head at?”

“I think I’m –” she recalls the image of Logan passing her a bottle of maple syrup, sleep-rumpled and shirtless, “– uh, hungry.”

They pass a display of costume jewelry and Veronica reaches for a pair of dangly earrings. The silver will probably tarnish and turn green in a few wears, but hey, they’re on clearance for $4. She tosses them into her basket.

“Where’d you vanish to the other night?” Mac holds up a pair of large red hoops, frowns and puts them back on the rack. “You Irish goodbyed.”

“As soon as I caught sight of Jeff Ratner’s nipple, I decided to split.”

“If it’s any comfort, we stopped the game pretty quickly.”

“Good to know.” They veer towards the sunglasses.

“You know what’s funny?” Mac asks, all casual.

Which should probably be her clue that the question is anything but. In her defense, however – pancakes.

“I will once you tell me.”

“Logan vanished around the same time.”

 _Ah._ Not casual at all. “Coincidences are funny now?”

“Is that what it was?”

Veronica places the heart-shaped hot-pink frames back on the rack. “Say what you mean to say, please.”

“There’s nothing going on with you and Logan, right?”

“Right.” Veronica has her on the technicality. Technically something _happened_ between her and Logan. Presently, in this very moment, nothing.

“Really?”

Someone’s discarded a copy of Michelle Obama’s _Becoming_ in a discount bin of whimsically patterned socks. Veronica places her hand on the cover. “I swear to you in this Target, Michelle Obama as my witness, I will never set foot in Logan Echoll’s bedroom.” Future tense. Another technicality. “Satisfied?”

Mac nods, sighing in relief. “Good.”

And something about the way Mac says it, like she and Logan would be a genuine disaster scenario, causes every hackle she possesses, and a few she was unaware of, to rise. It was funny at first, but it is becoming increasingly less so. “Good?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Because?”

“You know.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Look, you know how you are –” Well, _fuck_ , that kind of stings, but Veronica refuses to let Mac see her flinch. “Parker and I just think –” 

Okay, that’s enough. “Not all of us find our dream guy three days into freshman year of college.”

“I didn’t say –”

“And for the record, black widows only bite when they are startled or threatened.” She considers storming off but she and Mac drove together. “I’m going to checkout, and then I’m going to the Starbucks to get a caramel Frappuccino. Give me 10 minutes to stop being mad.”

***

After Mac drops her off at home, offering all manner of colorful apologies without actually revoking her statement that Veronica and Logan should stay away from one another, Veronica decides to take a drive.

It’s a dumb idea. She has no idea if he’s even home. And if he is, she has no reason to believe he’s alone.

Logan opens the door but before he can formulate a question, she cuts in. “I promised Mac I wouldn’t set foot inside your bedroom.”

It takes a moment for his confusion to clear, but then he nods. “I can work with that.” And then they’re kissing. Logan spins her away from the door and kicks it shut behind him.

* * *

“Are you dying or something?”

Logan looks up from his phone to find a very concerned Parker staring at him. He hadn’t even heard her come back from the bathroom. “What are you talking about?” He sets his phone aside and picks up the menu. “Want to share duck fat fries?”

“Obviously. But you’re avoiding the question.”

“About whether or not I’m dying?”

“No.” She frowns, crossing her arms. “Something is going on with you.”

He taps his temple with his index and middle finger. “Still waters.”

“I’m going to find out what it is.”

“I’m sure you will.” Actually, he’s fairly sure she won’t. There’s absolutely no way Parker could guess he and Veronica are in some sort of protracted kitten-meme-off that means his phone lights up all day with the most ridiculous shit he’s ever seen.

(This isn’t Logan’s first secret relationship. If what he and Veronica have could even be considered a ‘relationship.’ Though most days he’s not quite sure _why_ he and Veronica have decided to keep their whatever-it-is secret. Mostly he thinks it’s out of some sort of shared twisted fascination with keeping it hidden. All that to say, he’s not dumb enough to put her actual name in his phone. Her code name is ‘the petite blonde.’ When he told her, she scoffed at how obvious it was. But then he started listing all the women he’s dated who were both blonde _and_ petite and – well, he probably deserved the violent way she shoved him against the headboard of her bed.)

He looks up from the menu to find Parker still staring at him. “Will you quit it?”

“Just tell me.”

“Nothing is going on.”

“Tell me.”

“Fine. You got me: I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you. Please pass me the bread.”

She slides the breadbasket in front of him. “You’re sure you’re not dying?”

His phone lights up with another notification from Veronica. “Pretty sure.”

* * *

“Are you dying or something?”

Veronica pauses mid-veggie-chili stir. “Technically we’re all dying.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I’m aware.” The oven timer goes off and Veronica removes the cornbread from the oven, setting it on a trivet. All they need is the shredded cheese and butter from the fridge. Or, that _would_ be all they needed if Mac would stop staring at her. “You’re giving me the heebie jeebies.”

“No, you’re giving _me_ the heebie jeebies?”

“What did I do?”

“You’re so –” Mac hesitates, seemingly searching for the right word, before settling on “–happy.”

“And this is a bad thing?”

“No,” Mac replies quickly.

After their minor dust-up in Target a couple weeks back, Mac’s gone out of her way to prove to Veronica how un-judgmental she is. Which wasn’t what Veronica needed, truth be told. She didn’t need Mac to _pretend_ to be non-judgmental. She needed her to go back to being the morally ambiguous hacker-queen she met in high school. _God_. Not that Veronica doesn’t love Wallace, but why did meeting your soulmate at a young age turn even the coolest people into dicks?

“It’s just,” Mac continues, “you know that if you were seeing someone, I would be happy for you? Right?”

“What makes you think I’m seeing anyone?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Maybe I’m a little worried you’re not going to tell me the important stuff anymore.”

(Veronica’s not even sure if what’s going on with her and Logan counts as ‘important stuff.’ She has him listed as ‘psychotic jackass’ in her phone. Is that important? Or is it just something dumb she did because she knew it would make him mad.)

(His performance of righteous indignation would have been considerably more believable if he hadn’t been in the middle of taking her bra off.)

“When there is important stuff, you will be the first to know.”

Mac exhales. “Okay. That’s good.”

“Dinner’s done.”

As she and Mac dish up helpings of chili, piling their bowls high with cheese and sour cream, Veronica’s phone vibrates in her pocket.

She sets her bowl on the table, careful to keep her expression neutral as to not give Mac any extra hints of unexplainable happiness. Which is very hard to do when she sees Logan has texted a series of gifs showcasing cats on treadmill.

This behavior is unacceptable.

Something she fully intends to tell him which she goes over to his apartment later tonight.

* * *

Logan knocks on the closet door. There’s not a lock, so technically he could just open it, but he’s not sure if the action would be welcome. “Veronica.”

“Veronica’s not home right now.”

“I forgot she was coming over.”

“Mmm, yes, you mentioned that as you pushed my underwear clad self into your closet.”

“I’m sorry –”

“And now I’ve broken my promise to Mac.”

He leans his head against the closet’s doorframe. “What?”

“Not stepping foot in your bedroom.”

“Look, I –”

“I’m not sure we should do this anymore.”

He steps away from the closet. It’s not her words that leave him confused but the bounce in her voice. She sounds _perky_.

“Why?”

As if waiting for this precise cue, she flings the closet door open. In the twenty minutes she’s been hiding she’s not only helped herself to one of his sweaters (and _good god_ , has she rolled up the sleeves? That _is_ cashmere and it _will_ stretch) but perched on her head is a rhinestone studded cowboy hat.

“I’m not sure I can keep having sex with someone who thinks this hat is acceptable.”

“There’s an explanation for this.”

“You’re in a western themed show choir?”

“Close. My sister –”

Veronica pushes past him. No, that’s not accurate. She _gallops_ past him, lassoing the air as she does. “Like a rhinestone cowboy.” And now she’s singing.

“You’re not as cute as you think you are.”

She turns around, tips the cowboy hat to him. “Sure am, desperado.” Then she whinnies, galloping around his living room.

He figures at this juncture she’s already broken her promise to Mac, so he corrals her to gallop back into the bedroom. The cowboy hat gets tossed aside when her reaction to him taking his shirt of is “Whoa, Nelly!”

Okay, so maybe she _is_ as cute as she thinks she is.

* * *

“Uh, Veronica?”

Veronica drops her book to her chest with a frown. “Yeah?”

Mac walks into the living room, her laundry basket resting on her hip. She sets the basket on the kitchen table and pulls from the top of the pile a pair of men’s black boxer briefs. _Whoops._

Okay, so, when Mac came over to do laundry, her and Parker’s machine apparently on the fritz, and asked if Veronica had anything to throw in, she should have been a little more careful. But, in her defense, she forgot Logan’s proclivity to leave his underwear behind. The man has a problem.

“What about it?” Veronica asks.

“These are men’s underwear.”

“And they’re incredibly comfortable.”

“You bought yourself men’s underwear?”

“Maybe Piz left them behind.”

“And you’re wearing them?”

“I washed them first. And, feel that fabric. It’s soft as hell.” This is something she knows to be true. Again, Logan has a problem.

Mac does as she suggests and then tosses the pair onto her lap blanket. “I’ll throw the rest of your laundry on your bed.”

“You’re the best.” 

When Mac leaves the room to start another load, Veronica takes a photo of the briefs and sends them to Logan.

_3:31 PM – Veronica to Psychotic Jackass  
Accidentally leave something behind this weekend?_

_3:34 PM – Psychotic Jackass to Veronica  
_ _Who says it was an accident?_

She looks at the underwear label, knowing they’re probably something dumb and expensive. After looking up the cost of a pair of Derek Rose briefs, Veronica resolves to keep them. Serves him right.

* * *

“This is getting out of hand,” Veronica says, tilting her head back.

Logan takes the cue and kisses the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “I agree.”

“Why are there so many people here? You don’t even like people.”

“And yet they adore me.”

She tugs on his hair, pulling his mouth away from her neck. If he gives her a hickey he is dead. “I can’t see why.”

“ _You_ adore me.”

“Do I?” she asks, faux-philosophically. He goes in for another kiss and she dodges it; his lips glancing off her cheek. “We should get back out there.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s your best-friend’s birthday and you’re the host.”

“At this point the open bar is hosting the party.”

“If we keep disappearing together people are going to get suspicious.”

“They won’t notice as long as it doesn’t affect them.”

She bats at his chest. “Excuse me, sir, _I_ am the misanthrope in this relationship.”

Logan’s heart rate increases the slightest bit at the word ‘relationship.’ She kisses him again. Before he can deepen it, she pushes him back so she can hop down from the bathroom counter.

He sighs. “I go first?”

“Yes please, seeing as I have to deal with all –” she gestures to her hair which, to be fair, has seen better days, “–this.”

“How did that happen?”

“Yuck it up, chuckles. And wipe my lipstick off your chin before you go.”

* * *

Logan’s irritated. Or, at the very least, he wants her to _think_ he’s irritated. Veronica’s not sure.

Back when they started this thing, sneaking around was actually pretty damn entertaining. As the weeks turned into months, then turned into several months, it’s getting harder to maintain that light-heartedness. She smiles up at him.

“This is getting out of hand,” he says.

“Is it?”

He shakes his head. “No on second thought, it’s you. _You_ are getting out of hand.” 

She pushes past him to flop back onto his couch. “Mad my performance was so convincing?”

“Wondering why your performance required you to throw a drink in my face.”

“I had very good reasons.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Three of them.”

“Feel free to share.”

“Should we order pizza?” At his displeased look she smiles even wider. “If we wait to order the pizza until after I explain, that delays arrival by 10 min.”

He looks like he wants to argue. But (much like her when she realizes someone else is right) he stays silent in favor of clenching his jaw and glaring. She makes a big show of kicking her shoes off.

Apparently accepting she’s not going anywhere for the night, he orders the pizza. He sits next to her, and she’s not sure how much she actually bruised his ego and how much is performance. She snuggles up to his side and wraps his arm around her shoulder.

“It’s your fault,” she tells him. “Your eyes go all bushbaby whenever I do something cute.”

“Oh, do they?” he laughs.

“A lot. Parker was getting suspicious.”

“You threw a drink at me.”

“Which gave you an excuse to leave the party.”

“It was sticky.”

“It was a perfect plan.” He wings an eyebrow. _Okay_. Maybe not perfect. But it served its purpose.

“In the future,” he tells her, “I’d like us to make these decisions as a couple.”

Her heartbeat stutters at the word ‘couple.’ She’s not sure what it says about her that this has been her longest relationship in several years. It’s also the one no one knows about. She fears this is a case of causation as opposed to correlation.

“Okay,” she says.

“And next time you have to be the insensitive asshole.”

She sighs. “That’s fair.”

* * *

Most days Logan thinks he can pass for a mature, responsible adult. Long gone are the days of drunken beach parties and waking up with women he doesn’t recognize. He owns property, he has a job he tolerates and a small cadre of people he deigns to care about. Very adult. Very responsible.

So, what does it say about him that he is on Veronica’s doorstep well past 2 AM contemplating knocking on her door?

What it says about him is he’s just this side of drunk. And that he’s been out of town for several at various interior design trade shows meaning he hasn’t seen her in what feels like forever. And, _fine_ , maybe he originally planned to drive over to her place as soon as his flight landed. But then he got a text from Parker begging him to come be the buffer between her and her parents because her parents were already asking her about her love life. Which is why after way too many glasses of Scotch and an evening of forced politeness he took a cab to Veronica’s and is now…standing there not sure of what to do.

Is there actually a good way to wake someone up in the middle of the night? He knows due to a health scare with her dad last year she keeps her ringer on overnight. And it probably makes him an asshole of the highest order to exploit that but in his defense – this side of drunk. So right now, it sounds like a great idea.

He leans against the door frame, his forehead pressed against the cool metal of her door, and hits speed dial seven (1: voicemail, 2: Parker, 3: his favorite Thai restaurant, 4: Charlie, 5: Trina, 6: his accountant). It rings once, twice, and he’s already mentally prepared to call again when she picks up.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Ah, Buttercup, didn’t you miss me?”

“It is –” she pauses, “almost three in the morning.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“You sound drunk.”

“I am _almost_ drunk. Or, I used to be drunk.”

She chuckles. “Which means you want me to spoon you.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Really?”

“Nope.”

“You’re not calling in the hopes I’ll come over and keep you company?”

“No.”

“ _No_?”

“You coming over would defeat the purpose of me being on your doorstep.”

The line goes eerily quiet. He’s pretty sure she’s still there; just processing. “You are not.”

“Okay.”

“You are _not_ ,” she repeats.

“Okay.”

“Mac is asleep on my couch.”

“Good for her.” But then Veronica’s words sink in. “No, wait. Not good for her. Why?”

“Because Parker’s parents are in town, and –”

 _Oh. Yeah._ He probably should have put that together. Of course Parker’s parents are staying at the house – they were the ones who bought it for her. And Mac obviously decided to make herself scarce for a few days. Smart woman.

“Oh.” He doesn’t mean to sound as pathetic as he does. But it’s late, and he’s not entirely sober, and her shampoo makes her hair smell like toasted marshmallows, and –

“Stay there,” she says.

He nods even though he knows she can’t see the gesture and hangs up. It takes less than 30 seconds for her to open the door, a finger pressed to her lips in warning. And he knows that means he needs to be quiet, that he should silently follow her to her room and then work on a plan to sneak out in the morning, but there are pillow creases on her cheek and she’s the best thing he’s seen in days. He pulls her into him, resting his chin on her head. After a moment of hesitation, she wraps her arms around him and runs a hand up and down his spine.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she whispers.

He kisses the top of her head. “I’ll get _me_ to bed.” Wait. What?

“Shh.”

“You shh.”

* * *

Sleepy almost drunk Logan is too cute to be believed, if she’s being honest. His usually carefully coiffed hair is in a state of disarray and she doubts he’s aware of the soft little dopey smile he has on his face as he follows after her. She pulls him through the living room where she checks the Mac sized lump on the pull-out couch. Mac has plans to attend an early morning hot-yoga class, so Veronica should be able to sneak Logan out once she leaves.

Veronica gets into bed, watching as he takes off his clothes with less grace than normal. What the _hell_ she is doing. This isn’t booty call. He’s not even drunk enough for her to excuse this as a drunken mistake.

She stifles a laugh as he stumbles, trying to kick his jeans off from where they’ve caught on his ankle. Six-months-ago-Veronica would have told him to take a fucking cab and left him on her doorstep. Somehow this guy has gotten under her skin. The idiot. Or maybe she’s the idiot. She’s losing track.

She scooches over in the bed to make room for him. Under normal circumstances Logan likes to wrap himself around her but when he’s drunk Logan likes to be snuggled. He smiles at her, all big and wide, and vaguely Labrador-retirevor-ish, and faces away from her so she can scratch his back.

There was one night a couple months ago, when they were both a little drunk, where they fell asleep like this. But not before she fished a Sharpie out of her bag and drew lines between his freckles. It means she has the constellation of them practically memorized and she traces the smattering from one shoulder blade to the next.

Oh _god_ , she really likes him. What’s more, she’s almost certain this is as close to being in love as she’s ever been before.

“Can we get pancakes in the morning?” he mumbles into his pillow.

She smiles. Places a kiss on her favorite freckle. “Yeah.”

His breath has evened out, growing deeper by the second. She’s pretty sure he’s asleep but then an ungodly sound seems to rend itself from somewhere deep inside him. Was that a hiccup or a burp? It happens again and it startles her.

“What the fuck?” she asks.

He rolls over to face her, his eyes still closed. “Happens sometimes when I’ve had too much to drink. No big deal. It’ll –” and then it happens again, but this time his weird hiccup-burp is inches _from her face._

“Logan, that is _disgusting_.” She ineffectually pushes at his shoulder. Like the dumb strong asshole he is, he barely moves.

“Shh,” he says. “I’m sleeping.”

“You do that one more time, I am pushing you out of this bed.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me.”

“Mac is sleeping.” Even in his sleepy state he reaches for her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Sleep.”

“I _was_ asleep. You woke me up. Then burped in my face.” She closes her eyes. Man, why does she put up with this guy? Aside from the way he makes her feel, and how he takes care of her, and –

In this position, his next hiccup-burp happens right in her _fucking ear_. She doesn’t think; just reacts, and pushes him _hard._ All she sees before he hits the floor is widened eyes.

“You pushed me!”

“I warned you.”

“This is spousal abuse.”

“You’re not my spouse.”

“Boyfriend abuse.”

She scoffs. “What makes you think you’re my boyfriend?”

“Well after this kind of treatment maybe I don’t want to be.”

She reaches for his pillow and smacks him with it. “You burped. _In my ear_.”

“It was a hiccup.”

“It was a burp.”

“So that’s all it takes to fall out of favor with Veronica Mars? One little –”

Logan’s indignant tirade which, despite his less than sober state and him being in his underwear, she was actually kind of looking forward to hearing, is interrupted by Mac barging into her room.

“What is going on?” Mac asks.

“Veronica is a bully and pushed me out of bed.”

It definitely wasn’t what Mac meant, but Logan’s literal take on the question stuns Mac into temporary silence. She takes a deep breath. “So, this is a thing?”

Veronica’s not sure which one of them the question is directed towards, so she nods on their behalf.

“For how long?” Mac asks.

Veronica shrugs. “A while.”

Mac presses a hand to her forehead. “It’s too early for this.”

“You think it’s too early for _this_? Try getting pushed out of bed.”

“Oh god,” Veronica groans, “you _burped_ in my ear.”

Logan turns to Mac, his hands raised in supplication. “You see what I have to deal with?”

“I don’t –” Mac starts, “I don’t – I –” She cuts herself off once more, pinches the bridge of her nose, and exhales. “How much of this was because Parker and I didn’t want you to be friends?”

“Solid 40%” Logan says. “At least at first.”

“Fantastic,” Mac says wearily. She backs out of the room and closes the door without another word. 

“Well,” Logan says. “That went well.”

Veronica reaches out a hand. “Burp in my ear again and die.”

“It was a hiccup.”

He helps himself to the glass of water on her nightstand, holding his breath as he drinks it all. After a few seconds, without another hiccup-burp, he sets the glass down and gets back into bed. This time he lays on his back and Veronica drapes herself over him. 

“I guess the secret’s out,” he says, mumbling the words against the grown of her head.

“Guess so.”

“Is that –?” he hesitates, “Is that okay?”

She shrugs even as she nuzzles in closer. “Sure. Why not?”

“Still want to get pancakes tomorrow?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Am I your boyfriend?”

Usually the word makes her cringe. She’s a woman in her almost 30s. Boyfriend? _Seriously_? And yet, hearing Logan say it isn’t the worst thing. And maybe Logan asking her out the night of the party was 40% motivated by Mac’s obstinate behavior and Parker’s self-righteous attitude. She’s be lying if she didn’t say that 40% of her saying yes was motivated by the same factors. But since then? The rest of it? It’s 100% been the result of this inexplicable feeling she gets with him. Even when it requires being shoved in a closet, and lying about men’s underwear, and an early morning burp in her ear.

She kisses the space right above his heart. “Sure. Why not?”


	5. Tonight I'm in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Blind Pilot song, "[We are the Tide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZwKeA2ZDk3U)." 
> 
> Prompt is inspired by a prompt from [this](https://nevertothethird.tumblr.com/post/618822256716595200/more-au-ideas) tumblr list.
> 
> Is this thing perfect? No. Is it "on time"? Also, no. But am I happy with it?! *shrugs*

Most days Veronica wouldn’t mind her lunch break being interrupted by her staff. It’s the job. But today happens to be a day she called in a favor to the manager at Katie’s Crabshack and he sent over a steak sandwich for her very late lunch. All she wants to do is finish it when the steak is still hot-ish but the knock on her door tells her that is not a possibility. She pushes the to-go box aside, takes a sip of her coffee, and reaches for a breath mint.

“Come in,” she says, brushing errant crumbs off her skirt. Thankfully, no grease spots are visible.

Parker, her director of sales, is already apologizing before the door is fully open. “I know you’re on a break–”

If Parker is the one interrupting her, there’s a reason. Veronica stands and reaches for her blazer. “Is he here?”

“Just arrived. Tina is checking him in right now.”

“Perfect.” Tina, the hotel’s front office manager, has perfected the art of professional flattery. Always a good way to welcome the VIPs. Veronica pauses in the doorway of her office to smile toothily at Parker. “Teeth?”

“All clear. Drinks tonight?”

“Six at Danny’s?”

“Perfect.” Parker frowns, licks her thumb, and moves towards Veronica. She smacks her hand away.

“What are you doing?”

“You have a hair sticking out.” Parker licks her thumb again.

“Quit it.” Veronica pushes past Parker but smooths down her hair as she walks. She crunches the rest of the breath mint. The fried onions on the sandwich are delicious yet unforgiving. What if she smells like onions? Oh well. She’ll just have to stand far back from the guy.

Veronica can hear the tail end of Tina’s check-in spiel as she exits into the lobby. Standing beside a small rolling suitcase is Logan Echolls: founder and CEO of Windansea Sportswear, newest entry to Bloomberg’s billionaire index, and guest at the Neptune Grand for the next week.

For the next week it is Veronica’s, and by extension the rest of the staff’s, responsibility to keep him (and all his money) very happy.

“Mr. Echolls?” The man in question slides his room key into his pocket and turns to look at her. Based on the photos she’s seen of him, he’s taller than she expected. She extends her hand. “I’m Veronica Mars, general manager of the Neptune Grand. Welcome back.”

He takes her proffered hand and they shake. She notices, as she often does when meeting VIPs, his handshake. His grip is firm but not intentionally crushing to communicate his strength.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. 

“I hope you like what we’ve done with your suite.”

It’s part of Neptune Grand lore – that for the first two years Logan Echolls attended Hearst College, he lived in the penthouse suite. Once his sportswear company grew in prominence, he acquired investors and ten took the company public at 31-years old, it became part of the hotel’s reputation. Though his company still has an office in Neptune, this stay marks the first time he’s returned to the hotel in almost fifteen years.

“Actually, I asked Tina to switch me to a different suite. I hope that’s not too much trouble.”

Veronica smiles at Logan and shoots what she hopes is a casual glance Tina’s way. Tina has the phone receiver cradled between her chin and shoulder. She shrugs helplessly and mouths, “I tried.”

“Wherever you’re most comfortable,” Veronica answers breezily, reaching into her blazer pocket. She hands Logan her business card. “If you need anything during your stay, my direct and personal lines are there.”

“‘Anything’ as in extra pillows or as in escorts and caviar?” He’s joking. At least she hopes so. His tone is wry and sort of disinterested. Still, he wouldn’t be the first member of southern California’s wealthy elite to entertain evening company. Though, they usually arrange such matters on their own.

“Anything within the confines of the law.”

“I can work with that.” He slides her business card into his jacket pocket. “Is the bison burger still on the menu?”

“Absolutely.”

“Could you have one sent up? Medium rare.” He leans a little closer, lowering his voice. “And tell Tina not to bother moving the champagne and fruit basket to my new room. Although, a beer would be nice.”

“Not big on ostentation?”

“Oh, I’m its poster child. But it’s depressing to drink champagne alone and pears make me queasy.”

“How do you know there are pears in the basket?”

“There are always pears in the basket.” Why did that sound vaguely dirty? From the self-satisfied look on his face, he knows _exactly_ how it sounded.

She stifles her laugh – no need to stoke the billionaire’s ego. “What are your thoughts on apples?” Off his silence and creased brow, she explains. “Our house made apple dumplings are well worth trying.”

“Dumplings?” He says the word slowly, like it’s the first time he’s ever heard it before.

“Yes, dumplings.” He cocks his head, considering her. She clears her throat. “Served with house made vanilla bean ice cream.” Logan remains silent. “Complementary, of course.”

He continues to scrutinize her in silence. Veronica resists the urge to fidget. “Have we met before?” he asks.

Okay. Not what she expected. “I don’t believe so.”

“Did you go to Hearst?”

“Stanford. My brothers went to Hearst, though.”

He frowns. “You’re from Neptune?” She nods. “Neptune High?”

She shakes her head again. “No. Pan.”

“And you’re sure we’ve never met? Maybe at a party or something?”

She points to herself. “Daughter of a sheriff. All my partying waited until college.” Logan is still looking at her, but it’s like he’s seeing through her. “Mr. Echolls? Is everything okay?”

“Huh?”

“Can I call a bellman for your bag?”

“Oh.” He looks to his suitcase and then back up at her. “No. Thank you.”

“I’ll have your meal brought up right away.”

“Great,” he says, distracted.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Echolls”

“Yeah.” He reaches for the handle of his bag and walks towards the elevator bank.

She returns to the front desk where Tina is now off the phone. Both of them watch as Logan calls and waits for the elevator.

“What was that?” Tina asks.

“You saw that? Weird, right?”

“Oh, I saw it,” Tina says, sounding smug.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tina shrugs. Now on the elevator, Logan catches her eye before the doors close. The hair on the back of her neck prickles. “Cancel Mr. Echoll’s champagne and fruit basket.”

Tina groans, reaching for the phone receiver. “Dee is going to kill me.”

* * *

At precisely 6:00 PM, Parker strolls into Veronica’s office. Veronica ignores Parker’s judgmental look as she continues to type on her laptop.

“Leave me alone and fix your lipstick.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“You’re lucky I pay you.” She finishes her email and clicks send, closes her work laptop, and slips her heels back on. Not only did her sandwich go cold, an unexpected visit from Celeste Kane to discuss renting out space for the Kane Foundation annual fundraiser meant she didn’t even finish it. She tosses the remnants of her sandwich in the trash.

Danny’s Bistro is across the street, meaning they’ll likely see a number of hotel guests in the dimly lit bar. The thing about the wealthy, though, is they rarely remember names or faces of staff. Even if she is the general manager.

Sitting at the bar, a large plate of bleu cheese fries between them, Veronica finds her mind drifting back to work. Her to-do list for tomorrow is already ten items long. On top of that–

Parker snaps her fingers in front of Veronica’s face. “Think about work on your own time.”

“This is my time.”

“No. It is _my_ time. And I want to talk about Vegas.”

Veronica groans. Parker is getting married in two months, her bachelorette weekend is planned for Vegas, and it’s pretty much _all_ Parker wants to discuss. “What else is there to talk about?”

“Whether or not you’re coming?”

“Oh. That.” Veronica’s never been one for big group gatherings and the idea of sharing a house in Vegas, even a lush one, with a group of women she barely knows is not her idea of fun.

“You know you’re going to come.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Well, _I_ know that.”

“How?”

“Because I have your number, Veronica Mars, and your bark is way worse than your bite.” Parker takes a sip of her cocktail to punctuate the statement. “Plus, you would never pass up the opportunity to get drunk with Mac and make fun of my other friends. You love that shit.”

Veronica grins and takes a sip of her gin and tonic. “I do love that.”

Parker’s phone vibrates on the bar top and Veronica only needs to see Parker’s dopey-eyed smile to know it’s Jalen, Parker’s fiancé.

“I don’t know why he’s calling,” she says, unconvincingly.

“Just answer it.”

Parker’s already sliding off her barstool. “I’ll be super quick.”

Really, this is a blessing. Parker always hogs the fries covered in the most sauce. Veronica stabs her fork in the fries, swirling them in the blue cheese béchamel sauce.

“Alone again?” The voice from behind her is vaguely familiar. Still, she is not in the mood for a man sneaking up behind her in a dimly lit bar. She rotates her bar seat, only to find Logan Echolls signaling for the bartender.

“My friend had to take a call,” Veronica says, fighting through the pleasant buzz from the gin to access her professionalism. “Was your suite to your liking, Mr. Echolls?”

“You were right.”

“Oh, good.” She frowns. “About what?”

“The dumplings. They were good.” The way he tells her this, all bright eyes and coy smile, makes her feel like she’s missing something.

“I’m glad you enjoyed them, Mr. Echolls.”

“Please. We go way back. Call me Logan.”

“Way back as in,” she checks her watch, “three and half hours ago?”

“Oh, we met way before that.”

“When?” The bartender approaches Logan. She waits for him to order a beer before she repeats her question. “Seriously. When?”

“I’m a little offended you don’t remember.” Logan accepts his beer from the bartender and lays a $10 bill on the bar top. “Keep it.”

“Was it at the Grand for an event or something?” She doesn’t think that’s right. Veronica transferred to the Grand from their sister property in San Diego three years ago. By then Logan had more than made a name for himself. She would have remembered meeting him.

“What would be the fun in telling you?”

“What is the fun of you _not_ telling me?”

He smiles at her and it’s somehow boyishly sweet while also being rather lewd. The look sends a little prickle up her spine she is determined to ignore. She blames the cut of his suit. A man in a well-tailored suit is just not fair. _God_. Billionaires can be insufferable. Usually they don’t leave her feeling quite so unsettled, though. Maybe she’s coming down with a cold?

His eyes dart over her shoulder and Veronica follows his gaze to see that Parker is returning. He knocks his knuckles on the bar top. “I’ll leave you to it. Give my best to Wallace.”

“I will,” she says. And then his words sink in. “Wait. What?” But he’s already heading back to his table.

“Something wrong with his room?” Parker asks.

“No.” From where Logan sits he catches her eye and smirks, raising his glass to her in acknowledgment. She turns back to Parker. “He told me to say hi to Wallace.”

Parker frowns. “How does Logan Echolls know your step-brother?”

“The better question is how in the hell does he know me?”

* * *

On her way home from Danny’s, after a split burger and dessert and a full Logan Echolls debrief with Parker, Veronica calls Wallace. The sound of her phone ringing over the Bluetooth speakers fills her car. He better pick up because if he doesn’t she’s–

“Hey, sister.”

“Logan Echolls says hello.”

Wallace pauses. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope.” And she probably shouldn’t say anything else, guest privacy and all that, but it’s _Wallace_. Also, Logan told her to say hello. “He’s a guest at the hotel. How do you know Logan Echolls?”

“I don’t,” Wallace says. He must take her stony silence as an indication his answer is insufficient. “Seriously, I don’t.”

“So, what? He picked the name of my step-brother out of thin air?”

“Look, I met the guy a few times when we were at Hearst. A couple of guys from the basketball team were friends with people he was friends with. Saw each other at a couple parties. But I don’t know the guy.”

“Why didn’t you ever mention this?”

He scoffs. “Mention what? That the guy warned me against the hummus at a party one time? Fascinating stuff.”

“How does he know me, though?”

“Umm,” Wallace says carefully, “because he’s staying at the hotel you manage?”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“What is happening?”

“He insinuated he and I met before today. But he won’t tell me when or how.”

Wallace is silent for a couple seconds. She checks her SUV’s console to ensure the Bluetooth is still connected.

“Veronica. Is a billionaire flirting with you?”

“Shut up.”

“It sounds to me like he was flirting with you.”

“Hardly. He’s just being rich and annoying.” At the mention of flirting, that same prickly sensation at the back of her neck starts up again. She’ll stop at the pharmacy tomorrow and pick up some Emergen-C.

“Maybe he cut you off in traffic one time and you ran him off the road. That sounds like you.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Seriously, I have no idea. But he left Neptune after he graduated Hearst so it must have been before then.”

“You are absolutely no help.”

“See you at dinner on Sunday?”

“Yeah. Dad says he’s making lasagna so make sure to bring a Lactaid.”

Wallace groans. “Why does Keith always have to do me like that?”

“Probably because you’re still not a Padres fan.” 

* * *

Fridays at work always begin with Parker leading the sales meeting followed by the sales managers reporting on their individual accounts. This Friday is only different because, much to the team’s confusion, Veronica came to the meeting with homemade snickerdoodles.

Rather than going to bed at a normal hour, Veronica found herself unable to stop thinking about the how and when of Logan Echolls. While creaming the butter and sugar, she was certain she had it figured out.

 _9:37 PM – Veronica to Wallace  
_ _Could I have met Logan at that sports gala thing you and I went to?_

 _9:40 PM – Wallace to Veronica  
_ _I guess it’s possible._

 _9:41 PM – Veronica to Wallace  
_ _How possible?_

He didn’t respond and Veronica fumed about it as she wiped down the countertop, the first batch of cookies in the oven. Which inspired another theory.

 _10:05 PM – Veronica to Wallace  
_ _Remember when we went to Cho’s that one time and I bumped into that guy and he spilled his milkshake. Could that have been Logan?_

 _10:08 PM – Wallace to Veronica  
_ _I repeat: it is possible._

 _10:09 PM – Veronica to Wallace  
_ _How possible?_

Again, silence. Until later, when she was curled up in front of her fireplace with a stack of cookies.

 _10:52 PM – Veronica to Wallace  
_ _Remember that time Piz and I went bowling and some guy hit on me and Piz got all sulky? Could that have been Logan?_

 _10:59 PM – Wallace to Veronica  
_ _Go to bed._

 _11:00 PM – Veronica to Wallace  
_ _Wallace._

 _11:08 PM – Wallace to Veronica  
_ _…I wasn’t there._

 _11:09 PM – Veronica to Wallace  
_ _But based on what you know about Logan do you think he’s ever bowled?_

She continued to send Wallace theories despite his failure to respond after her bowling theory.

At the close of the sales meeting, Marie, the hotel’s event manager, remains in her office for a few minutes longer. Together with Parker, the three of them troubleshoot how to appease one of their wedding clients. The bride insists on candles in the ballroom despite the significant fire hazard and clear wording in her contract.

“God,” Veronica says kneading her forehead. “Why can’t rich people just follow the fucking rules?”

“Pretty sure they got rich by _not_ following the fucking rules,” Parker says. She turns to Marie. “Explain our policy to Ms. Dahl one more time, and in exchange –”

“In exchange we’ll comp the honeymoon suite for two nights. It’s what she wants anyway,” Veronica finishes.

So much of her job is just giving rich people what they want. Which she usually doesn’t mind. Today it niggles at her. Because all she wants is to simply know how she met one of these rich people, and _noooo_ he doesn’t even have the courtesy–

“Veronica?”

“What?”

“Everything okay there?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, Marie asked you a question, you ignored her, then started muttering under your breath.”

“I wasn’t muttering.”

“There was some _Exorcist_ adjacent action happening.”

Veronica looks around her office. “Where did Marie go?”

“She’s meeting with the bride.” Parker leans forward in her seat. “What’s with you?”

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Take the rest of the day off. I—”

“Why won’t Logan just tell me how he knows me?”

Parker looks momentarily startled by the interruption, then reaches for another snickerdoodle. “Ah.”

“Don’t ‘ah’ me.” Parker takes a bite of her cookie, keeping her expression blank. “Why did you ‘ah’ me?”

“You broke up with Seth how long ago now?”

“We didn’t break up. He was transferred, and what does that—”

“Logan’s messing with you.”

“You mean he wants to turn me into a head case?”

“Veronica Mars, has a man actually ruffled you?” 

“There will be no ruffling. He’s manipulating me.”

Parker groans. “He is flirting with you.”

“Why?”

“Lord knows. Look, he’s checking out in five days. Just keep your distance.” Parker stands and rests her palms on Veronica’s desk, leaning in. “Unless, that is, you don’t want to.”

Veronica points to the door. “Leave.”

* * *

It doesn’t bother her. Really. It’s just that if Parker is right and Logan was flirting with her, she should put a stop to it. Immediately. Because she is a professional and she does not flirt with guests. She especially didn’t flirt with him.

(This is in no way impacted by the fact that she was sort of waiting all weekend for him to text her and he didn’t. The jerk. Or that Wallace refused to be alone with her at family dinner for fear of more Logan talk.)

On Monday afternoon, Callie, one of her front desk clerks, pops her head into Veronica’s office to let her know Mr. Echolls is in the lobby. Veronica only wanted this information for the opportunity to communicate. Good communication is beneficial to all kinds of relationships. Even the most professional. 

Veronica arrives in the lobby just in time to see a red-headed woman plant a sloppy kiss on Logan’s cheek, leaving a glossy pink lip mark behind. Logan pushes her away with a look of annoyance and the woman laughs.

“See you at Christmas, baby bro.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, fishing a handkerchief out of the inner pocket of his navy suit.

Oh. He has a sister. That’s nice.

(Is what she would think if Veronica cared at all about Logan Echolls in anything other than a professional capacity.)

As Veronica approaches, he wipes the mark off his cheek with the handkerchief.

“Mr. Echolls?”

“Logan.”

“That’s inappropriate.”

“My first name is inappropriate?”

“No. Me _calling_ you by your first name is inappropriate.”

He wings an eyebrow, returning the handkerchief to its rightful place and rebuttoning his suit jacket.

(His very well-tailored suit is doing all sorts of things to bring out the flecks of gold in his eyes – is the kind of unprofessional thought Veronica does not have.)

“Why is that?” he asks.

“Mr. Echolls, have you been flirting with me?”

“Logan. Do you think I’ve been flirting with you?”

“Parker says you have been.”

“Who is Parker?”

“My director of sales.”

“The one you were having drinks with?”

“Yes.”

He grins and takes a small step towards her. “You’ve been talking to your friends about me?”

Oh, _shit._ “What? No! Ridiculous.” And now she’s stammering.

“Hey, I get it. Sometimes I’m up all night just thinking about myself.”

She lets her mask of professionalism slip for just a second before she remembers that this is Logan Echolls. The very wealthy VIP guest she has demanded everyone treat like royalty. Which means she absolutely cannot –

“Did you just glare at me?”

“No.” At his look of incredulity she huffs out a breath. “I _almost_ glared at you.”

“Is this glare –”

“—alleged glare.” 

Logan rolls his eyes and it makes her want to slap him. “Is this alleged glare related to my alleged flirting?”

“Look, Logan, I am the –” He’s kind of been smirking at her this whole conversation but now he’s full on grinning. “What?”

“You just called me Logan.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Heard it with my own two ears.”

“Mr. Echolls –”

“And let’s be honest, if anyone is flirting with anyone, you’re flirting with me.” With that absolutely _audacious_ statement, Logan steps away from her. By the time she realizes he’s heading for the elevators she has to power walk on her four-inch heels to catch him.

“Excuse me. I am not flirting with you.”

He hits the up button of the elevator. “You just chased me down in the hotel lobby.”

“In my professional capacity as general manager of this hotel.”

He turns to look at her. “Really?”

“Really.”

Logan shrugs. “My mistake.” He looks up at the numbers on the elevator. “So why are you still standing here?”

To be honest she has no idea. But she obviously can’t admit that. “I need to speak to my director of housekeeping. She’s on the tenth floor.”

“Ah.” The elevator doors open and after the guests step off, Logan holds out an arm in invitation to her. “After you.”

Okay. This is maybe not a plan she thought through because now she has to be on the elevator with him.

Not a big deal. This is fine. The doors close.

“Do you bar all your guests from flirting with you?”

Or, this could be the opposite of fine.

She folds her arms across her chest, studiously avoiding his gaze. Her periphery tells her his attention is focused on her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on. You’re a beautiful woman who manages a luxury hotel. You know what I’m talking about.”

“You calling me ‘beautiful’ is an example of flirting.”

“It’s not flirting if it’s a fact.”

She drops her arms to her side and clenches her fists. Why is he so smug, and unbothered, and just so all in her space in this elevator? She takes a microstep away from him. “No, it’s an opinion.”

“Beautiful people always know they’re beautiful.” He waves a hand in front of his face. “Like me. I’m beautiful as fuck.”

She will _not_ laugh. “Want me to send up someone to deflate that ego of yours?”

“You’re doing a good enough job of it. Besides, false humility isn’t the opposite of pride.”

“I never said it was.”

“Then what are we arguing about?”

“ _We_ are not arguing. _You_ are being obnoxious.”

During their time together in the elevator, that itchy feeling at the back of her neck has not only returned by spread throughout her body – like hot sauce has somehow gotten under her skin – but it’s almost unbearable now. Is she allergic to his cologne or something? She has to get out of this elevator.

“Okay, fine,” she says. “Parker was wrong. You haven’t been flirting with me. And I _definitely_ haven’t been flirting with you.”

“Great.”

“Great.”

“Glad we cleared that up.”

“Yes.” They reach the 10th floor and Veronica really should take the opportunity to make her escape. The doors start to close with her still inside. Logan hits the button to reopen them.

“Was there something else?” he asks.

Alright. She’ll do what she came to do some other time. “Nope,” she says, taking a step out of the elevator.

As the doors start to close again she jumps in the way, forcing them re-open. For the first time during this weird little encounter, Logan looks surprised by her actions.

“How do you know me?” she asks.

“Ah. That.” The doors start to close again and Veronica steps between them. “I’m a little hurt you don’t remember.”

She throws her hands up in defeat. “You know what? I think you’re bluffing.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I don’t think we _have_ met before. I think you’re doing all of this to get under my skin.” This time when the doors close it’s Logan who steps between them.

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He steps back into the elevator. She barely knows this guy but there’s absolutely no way he’s conceding. Sure enough, he snaps his fingers as if he’s just remembered something. She could do without the dramatics. “I keep meaning to ask: how is that floppy-haired friend of yours? He ever start that Dashboard Confessional cover band?”

Logan’s words don’t make sense at first and she watches him watch her to try to figure it out. Then it clicks. “Are you talking about Piz? You know Piz?”

He frowns. “What’s a Piz?”

“My college boyfriend.”

“Ah. And no – I don’t know Piz.”

“But you know _of_ him? How?”

Before Logan can respond, her cell phone vibrates with a message. 

_2:20 PM – Tina to Veronica  
_ _Where are you? The sheriff is here and needs to speak to you._

Veronica groans. Sheriff Langdon likely needs security footage. Just great. She _loves_ dealing with warrants.

“I have to get back.” She hits the down button on the elevator. “We met somewhere that has to do with Piz?”

“Could be,” Logan says. “Admit it, you’re having fun, aren’t you?”

“Go annoy someone else, please.”

“What happened to me being a VIP guest?”

“You’re still a VIP. Just an annoying one.” She offers him a saccharine sweet smile.

He returns her smile (his looks genuine) and steps back into the elevator. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Parker was right.” And like the son-of-a-bitch somehow timed it to happen, the doors of the elevator close.

* * *

Sheriff Langdon’s request ends up being exceedingly more complex than Veronica anticipated. It involves security footage, renting a room one to ten days for a sting operation, and coordinating with Tina to ensure their suspect is checked into a specific room to aid it all. The operation also involves more than a couple calls to her dad, now retired but always helpful when discussing matters of law enforcement, and the hotel’s lawyers to assess the Grand’s liability. In addition to her normal work for the day, it means Veronica doesn’t leave the hotel until after 8:00 PM. She takes a long, hot shower while she waits for her Indian food delivery and stumbles into bed at 10:30 PM.

For once there’s no tossing or turning; just a sudden fall into dreamless sleep.

Until she jolts awake some hours later. Veronica fumbles to turn on her bedside lamp and reaches for her phone. The display reads 1:10 AM and it takes her less than five minutes to toss on a bra and an oversized sweatshirt, slip on her Birkenstocks, grab her keys, and go.

Once she’s driving in the direction of the Grand she allows herself time to process. Her cheeks redden in embarrassment.

“Oh my _god_ ,” she mutters to herself. In the absence of being able to bang her head against the steering wheel, all Veronica can do is try and hold it together long enough to confront Logan.

Logan Echolls. Billionaire VIP guest at her hotel. Also, the man she once drunkenly tried to convince to make out with her. His face as it was in college crystallizes and she just wants to die.

“OH MY GOD!” she shouts, pressing her foot to the gas pedal.

* * *

Veronica developed a rather unfortunate habit in high school wherein she merely tolerated romantic relationships because sometimes boys smelled nice, and kissing was fun, and it was nice to have a built-in excuse of “I have a boyfriend.”

She dated Eric most of sophomore and junior year, but that relationship ended when his family moved to Chicago right before senior year. She dated Richie, the sweetest guy a girl could ask to date in high school, senior year. And maybe she fooled herself into thinking their decision to split rather than do long distance was mutual. It’s not that she didn’t like Richie. She did. A lot. But her affection did not extend to dating while she was at Stanford and he played basketball at the University of Kentucky. She waited to tell him until after her dad and Alicia’s wedding, though. Wallace had been talking up the buffet to Richie for weeks. It didn’t seem fair to deprive him of it.

All this meant she somehow made it to college without ever being dumped or experiencing a breakup in the traditional sense. She was aware Piz, Wallace’s roommate freshman year, found her attractive from the outset. Seeing as they went to colleges more than 500 miles apart, it seemed harmless. Except Piz spent Thanksgiving and Easter with her family. Then the summer after freshman year, when she came back to Neptune, Piz also there. Over time she started to find his long-hair and earnest guitar playing kind of sweet. And he was always up for a late-night ice cream run. So, when he kissed her one night on the beach, she thought “what the hell?”

Even separated 500 miles, Piz needed more from her than Eddie or Richie ever had. He wanted to talk on the phone every night and plan their weekends together months in advance. When he found out from Wallace she applied to a summer internship in San Francisco for after Sophomore year, he was none too subtle about his displeasure.

They had the same fight throughout college over and again. If Veronica had asked herself what she wanted, she would have realized early it wasn’t Piz. Instead, she allowed their relationship to simply float on. That was until a weekend in Neptune their senior year.

“You’re breaking up with me?” she asked. Not only breaking up with her. No. Breaking up with her _for someone else._ “I flew here so you could break up with me?”

Piz reached for her hand and she jerked it away. “I thought I should do it in person.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“Veronica.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t be like this. Not after everything –”

“Nope. You don’t get to do that.”

“Veronica.”

“Get out.”

“Are you serious?”

She stood up from his bed and opened the bedroom door. “I’m serious.”

The son of a bitch had the gall to _laugh_ at her. “Veronica,” he said in that condescending tone of his. Holy _fuck_ , how had she tolerated that for so long? “I live here. This is my room.”

“I don’t care.”

“Let’s be reasonable.”

“Did Wallace know you were going to break up with me?”

Piz’s gaze dropped to his shoes. “No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And do you really think if there’s a choice between you and me he’s going to choose _you_?”

He looked up at her, seemingly startled by the coldness of her voice. “You’d do that?”

“Want to find out?”

She stalked out of his room and headed to Wallace’s, banging on the door loudly before walking in without an answer.

Wallace was at his desk studying, his noise cancelling headphones drowning out her entrance. Rather than ease him into her presence she stomped over and smacked him on the shoulder.

He cried out. Maybe she hit him harder than intended. “Ow! Veronica! What is your problem?”

“Did you know Piz was going to break up with me?”

“No. What?! He broke up with you?”

She crouched down so she was eye-level with him. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Good.” She shuffled backward until her knees hit Wallace’s bed. The only mercy of the moment was she hadn’t felt like crying yet. That had to be a good sign. What she really wanted to do was break something.

“What do you need?” Wallace asked.

Rather than respond with her previous thought, she took a second to think. What did she need? “Tequila.”

“Done.”

A few hours later, after she was certain Piz had left the apartment and a shared pizza, she followed Wallace up the walkway to a beach house. The noise from the party assaulted her on every side. Even the sidewalk felt like it was shaking.

“What happened to tequila?”

“Pretty sure they’ll have tequila here,” Wallace said.

“You know who else has tequila? A bar. Or a liquor store. And you know what those places don’t have?” She pointed to the hood of the car on which some serious heavy petting was occurring. “All these people.”

“This’ll be good for you.”

She let out a snort of derision. “How so?”

“You’re not sad so sitting at a bar is going to do nothing for you. Here you can get drunk, white girl angry dance, and then we’ll go back to my place and order late night eggrolls.”

“How do you know I’m not sad?”

Wallace looked at her with an almost pitying expression. Given she had just been dumped it seemed rude. “Look, the dude is my friend, but come on. _Piz_. You were never really that into him.”

“We dated for three years.”

“So?”

“That’s not true.”

“The only reason you’re upset is because _he_ broke up with _you_.”

“That’s not –” He shook his head as he walked away, cutting off her protest.

The thing was, she did want a drink. And there was probably a little sadness mixed in there with the anger. Deep down. She dated the guy for _three years_. She would have to be a sociopath to not feel any sadness.

After her second tequila shot and a cup of a very delicious red punch (which she tested using one of her portable, handy-dandy little date-rape drug cards) she was starting to appreciate the brilliance of Wallace’s plan. The two of them danced, commandeered an entire bag of Doritos, and at some point that tight knot of anger in her chest went away. She was even in a good enough mood to catch up with a couple high school acquaintances who knew the rich guy who owned the party house. (The rich guy whose floor she dropped bean dip on. Oops.)

It was actually shaping up to be an okay night. That was until Wallace tried to take her third cup of punch from her.

“What are you doing?”

“Time to go,” Wallace said.

She planted her feet as firmly she could. “Why?”

“Veronica.”

“Don’t Veronica me.” And then it clicked. _No_. She looked behind her and sure enough there was Piz. Piz holding the hand of a woman who could have been her doppelganger. Gross. “That asshole.”

“In his defense –” He cut himself off at her narrowed eyes.

“Did you know he would be here?”

“No! Does this look like Piz’s scene?”

To her absolute horror Piz made eye contact with her. And because he was _Piz_ and lacked the ability to read the fucking room, he was making his way over to them. With his Veronica-clone in tow.

“No,” she muttered to herself. “He wouldn’t.”

“He wouldn’t what?”

“He’s coming over here.”

She pressed further into the mass of people, her eyes darting side to side. She needed an escape route. She needed a –

Out of the corner of her eye, tucked behind a mass of bodies, she saw exactly what she needed. A man about her age, approximately 6’ tall, leaning against a doorway with an air of perfected insouciance. His grey-green crew neck shirt stretched tight against his broad shoulders, and hallelujah! he was making eye-contact with her. Even 2-tequila shots and 3-cups of punch deep Veronica could recognize a good opportunity.

Veronica marched up to the tall-shirt-wearing-man and pressed him backwards. An admittedly ineffectual action seeing as he was already propped up against the door.

“I need you to kiss me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please.” She touched her lips. “You put your mouth on my mouth and pretend to be my boyfriend. Thank you.” Veronica wound her arms around his neck, closed her eyes and puckered her lips. “Kiss.” When no kiss came, she screwed one eye open. The man looked decidedly amused; one corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk.

“I’m not going to kiss you.”

“But I’m a blonde and perky cute girl. Dumb college-guys love that shit.” Veronica glanced over her shoulder. She lost Piz in the crowd, but it was only a matter of time until he found her again. “Look, I don’t have time to explain, but I have a –”

“Boyfriend? Fiancé? Husband you want to make jealous? Yeah, I got that.” He reached up and unhooked her arms from around his neck. “And while I’m flattered—”

“You shouldn’t be,” she cut in.

Smirky-tall-man smiled at her. “Well, regardless, no thank you.”

“Look, it’s not my boyfriend.” she said, pressing closer. “An _ex-_ boyfriend. So please do me this one little favor.”

“I don’t know you. Why would I do you a favor?”

“Would you stop hassling me?” she demanded, shoving his shoulder a little. It was quite irritating to be met with firm muscle. Asshole.

“ _Me_ hassling _you_? Look, lady –”

“Lady? Did you just call me lady?”

“Pretend the roles were reversed. Some drunk guy stumbles up to you at a party –”

“I am _not_ drunk.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “A _not_ drunk person effortlessly glides up to you and demands, without so much as asking your name, that you make out with them. You would do that?”

“Is that what you want? You want me to woo you and ask your name?”

“You think wooing someone is asking their name?”

“Ronnie?” And fan- _fucking_ -tastic. Piz found her.

So what? So what if tall, dark, and principled wouldn’t make out with her. She would get herself out of this mess. Veronica changed her tactic and snuggled up to the man, winding his arm around her shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Shut _up_ ,” she hissed.

“Ronnie?” She clenched her teeth. At least she’ll never have to tolerate that nickname again. “Who is this?” Piz asked.

“Oh,” she said. “You mean my new boyfriend?”

Above her head, the stranger cleared his throat. She ignored him.

“Boyfriend? But, you and I _just_ broke up!”

“What can I say? When you know, you know. Right dumplin’?” She looked up at the man she was currently cuddled up to. His expression was carefully neutral. She drummed her fingers on his chest. “Right?”

“Why yes, sugarplum. That _is_ right.”

Piz looked like he had been struck. “You let him call you _sugarplum_? I called you babe one time and you didn’t speak to me for a week.”

The man coughed and she resisted the urge to pinch him. “Snookums,” she simpered, turning her face up. “You still haven’t kissed me.”

“Well, pumpkin butt –” Veronica’s eyes widened. _Pumpkin butt?_ “– we’ve discussed this. With my oral herpes flaring up, we shouldn’t.” He looked down at her with affection but there was also a note of evil in his eyes. He nuzzled her nose with his. “Mmmkay?”

“Piz? Can we go?” Piz’s new Veroni-clone girlfriend finally spoke.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding more than a little dejected. If Veronica didn’t hate him, she might feel bad. “Yeah, okay.”

Once Piz was safely out of sight, Veronica broke away from the man and shoved him again. “You’re a menace.”

“I told you to respect my boundaries.”

“All I wanted—”

“—well you got what—”

“—was that _fun_ for you? Like, did you even—?”

“—did you consider just _leaving_?”

“Shut up!” Veronica shouted. The benefit of the size of such a party was that almost everyone the shrieking woman. “Shut up.”

“How am I the bad guy here?”

Maybe that third glass of punch was a bad idea. Veronica knew, she was absolutely _certain_ this guy _was_ the bad guy. She just couldn’t remember why. Without evidence all she could do was glower, shake her head, and walk away.

Unfortunately, in addition to being all tight and muscled with cologne that smelled of sandalwood (which did not at all suck), the man also had quick reflexes. He reached for her hand and pulled her back to him.

“What are you doing?” Veronica asked.

“Can I get your number?”

“Drop dead.”

“Please?”

“Maybe if you’d kissed me.” As the music faded from one song to the other, Veronica took the opportunity and shouted, “sorry about your herpes!”

The man laughed. Seriously. Did nothing phase him? “Have a good night, pumpkin butt.” Then tall-dark-and-demonic did the last thing she expected: he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

She would not blush. She _would not_. This was too much. Veronica needed to find Wallace.

“You too, snookums.” And then she left tall-dark-and-good-at-leaning exactly where she’d found him.

* * *

This is not the first nor, Veronica fears, the last time she arrives to her hotel in the wee hours of the morning. Her third New Year’s Eve at the Grand, she opted to simply stay the night at the hotel rather than be called at 2:00 AM for a third year in a row. Under normal circumstances her presence early in the morning would be surprising but not unprecedented. Normal circumstances, however, did not comprise of her arriving in a pair of leggings and a Stanford sweatshirt.

Veronica opts to take the service elevator from the loading dock, crossing her fingers she doesn’t run into any of the night staff on her way up to the 15th floor. When Logan asked for a different room they should have put him on the 3rd floor. That would have taught him.

(Of what she’s not entirely sure but it would have taught him something.)

The elevator doors open and Veronica shuffles down the hall quickly and quietly. There are zero room service carts on the floor which is a good sign she’ll remain undetected. Now to wake up Logan without waking everyone else on the floor.

She starts with a quick knock on his door. No answer. She waits a few seconds and knocks harder. No answer. Using her master to get into the room would be a gross misuse of hotel resources. Right?

She knocks again and, like an _idiot_ , it occurs to her for the first time that there is a good chance Logan is not alone. He’s an attractive, single (as far as she knows), billionaire. She should leave immediately. Veronica knocks again.

She notices a slight change in the light under Logan’s suite door; he likely turned on a lamp in the sitting room. Shadows dance back and forth under the door. She resists the urge to wave knowing he’s likely looking at her from the view finder.

Logan opens the door, his hair all sleep rumpled on one side. There are detectable pillow creases on his cheek and the sight makes something in her stomach turn over. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling and Veronica notices its similarity to that itchy feeling she gets whenever Logan is around.

Also, it should be noted, no shirt. He is not wearing a shirt. And, though she is obviously the picture of early morning professionalism, she’d be hard pressed to miss the low sling of his sweatpants.

“Good morning, snookums.”

It takes him a couple of seconds, but then the confusion on his face clears. He smiles at her all soft and sleepy. “Good morning, pumpkin butt.”

She pushes past him, trying to avoid all that skin, and into the room. Alright, so, referring to him by a saccharine nickname was _not_ how she planned to open this conversation, but she saw his _happy trail_ , okay? She wasn’t thinking clearly.

She heads straight for the wet bar in the corner of the lounge area, helping herself to the fixings for a vodka tonic.

“You know how expensive that stuff is?” he asks. She shoots him a look. “Ah. Yeah, I guess you would.”

She squeezes a slice of lemon into her drink. “Stop complaining. You know we’re comping everything.”

Logan pours himself a glass of whisky and then slides next to her on the couch.

“God, this is embarrassing.” She takes a long pull of her drink. “I’m a professional.”

“Those are the most professional pajamas I’ve ever seen.”

“It figures the guy I drunkenly demanded makeout with me fifteen years ago would be a billionaire. That is just –” she kisses the tips of her fingers.

“If I remember correctly, you insisted you were not drunk.”

“God, how do you remember everything?”

“You made a hell of a first impression.”

She sinks further into the cushions. “I was sleeping when it sort of just clicked. I didn’t spend much time in Neptune while I was in college and figured it had to do with Hearst, but –.” Now that she thinks about it, though, something doesn’t quite make sense. “Wait. How did you know Wallace was my step-brother?”

It’s hard to tell in the dim light of Logan’s room, but she thinks the tops of his cheeks flush a little. “Oh.” He takes another sip of his drink. “I, uh, saw you earlier in the night. And then after you left I asked about you.”

“Excuse me?” Logan doesn’t respond to her question, just takes another sip of his drink. “You asked about me?”

“You were a cute blonde at a party.”

She sits up a little and scoots closer to him on the couch. For the first time since Logan has checked into the Grand she feels in control. “Do you ask about _all_ cute blondes you meet at parties?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.” He shakes his head in exasperation and Veronica presses her lips together to prevent him from seeing her smile. That itchy feeling at the back of her neck isn’t so unpleasant now. Though, it’s a sensation she knows can’t be trusted. She’s pretty sure it’s what is responsible for the urge to press a hand to Logan’s bare chest. “You’ve been holding a candle for this mysterious woman you met at a party fifteen years ago? How sad.”

“I never said I held a candle for you.”

“It’s painfully obvious I ruined you for all women.”

“Alright,” he says, taking her drink out of her hand. “You do not get to drink my liquor and then insult me.”

“I told you we’re comping it.” She takes the glass back. “Why didn’t you want to stay in the penthouse?”

He looks down at his drink. “I knew I’d be busy while I’m here. Seemed like a waste of a perfectly good suite.”

It’s a perfectly logical explanation. Not one she believes mind you, but logical. “Is this your practice whenever you travel?”

“Not really. No.”

“Making this an exclusive Neptune Grand policy.” He takes a sip of his drink, still not looking at her. She pushes his (very naked very warm) shoulder to regain his attention. “The truth, please.”

“Do you vet all your guests like this?”

“No. This is an exclusive Logan Echolls policy.”

“I love being special.” Logan rests his head on the back of the sofa, his eyes turned up to the ceiling. “I wasn’t in a great place when I lived here. And I realize that makes me sound like a giant asshole because ultimately I spent two years of my life living in the penthouse suite of a hotel.”

“A luxury hotel,” Veronica corrects.

Logan laughs. “A luxury hotel. I know it’s probably changed since then.” He cuts himself off with a shrug.

“But, still,” she says.

“But, still.”

It’s his dismissive shrug she wants to ask about. What is he pretending to not care about? What happened to him in those years? But, as many lines as she’s already crossed, that’s not one she feels she’s earned the right to cross.

“Why not just stay somewhere else, then?”

“Despite my humble persona, I _am_ a billionaire.”

“And you knew we were gonna kiss your ass.”

“Oh, I was counting on it.”

She takes a sip of her drink to hide her laugh. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“My turn.” Logan rotates on the couch, tucking his knee under him, and bringing them even closer together on the couch. Is she imagining the heat radiating from his skin? “Why are you here right now?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? She gulps down the rest of her vodka tonic to buy herself time and sets her empty glass on a side table. “I wanted a drink I didn’t have to pay for.”

“I think you like it when I flirt with you.”

The guy’s not wrong. She can admit that now. But he’s not entirely right, either. His eyes have gone all soft. It could mean she woke him up in the middle of the night. Or, it could mean something else. It’s the possibility of ‘something else’ that has unsettled her since he stepped foot into her lobby.

“Logan, guests flirt with me and I sometimes flirt back. But, I can’t let it mean anything.” She presses a hand to her forehead. “Am I making sense?”

“You’re saying you can’t makeout with a guest.”

She laughs. “Basically.”

“Too bad.”

A part of her agrees. Mostly the part of her which, despite her best intentions, has not forgotten the existence of the happy trail or the sweatpants.

“I should go.” She stands up and her head spins a little. “Shit.” She sits back down. Probably a bad idea to finish her drink so quickly. “I can’t drive.”

“We could split a dark chocolate tart and some fries.”

“I’ve never had the dark chocolate tart.”

“Never?” Logan sounds horrified. She shakes her head. “Well, we’re correcting.” He picks up the receiver to put in the order. “Just so I know, will this be comped, too?”

She kicks him. “Get me one of those big fancy hot chocolates, too.”

“Whatever you want, sugarplum.”

* * *

By the time Veronica gets home it isn’t worth going back to sleep (like she even could) so she cleans her apartment and _does not_ think about Logan (or the moment he wiped whipped cream off her nose), makes a big breakfast and _does not_ think about Logan (or how he listened when she told him about her dad’s medical scare last year), and then gets ready for work and only thinks about Logan because he is a guest at the hotel (also: his bare chest and the sweatpants).

(She considered asking him to put on a shirt but had a feeling the request would make him _unbearable._ )

Logan is scheduled to check out in two days, and she expects the next forty-eight hours to include a torturous amount of flirting.

But then Veronica doesn’t hear from him all day.

The following day, she’s chatting with a long-term stay guest in the lobby and Logan passes right by without making eye contact. She assumes he’s respecting she’s at work. That fails to explain why, when she and Parker stop at Danny’s for a glass of wine after work, he ignores her. He saw her. She knows he did. 

It’s not like they were talking every day prior to their tart and fry sharing. It’s just – well, that night kind of felt like (god this is embarrassing to admit) a date. She thought something shifted that night. That the unmoored feeling she felt in his presence was a sign of good things. That rather than run from it she should press into it.

Now she thinks she needs to take a hint. He has cell phone number. (Did she imagine the way he lingered as he said goodbye to her that night?)

The morning Logan is due to leave, Veronica spends her work hours fuming. Weren’t men supposed to get _better_ as they got older? Apparently it doesn’t matter if they are 21-year old guitar players or 35-year old billionaires. This is why she prefers guys like Seth. Yeah, it might not be the sweeping love Parker has for her fiancé, but guys like Seth never make Veronica feel like this.

“Veronica?”

She looks up from the email she is angry typing to find Callie standing in her office doorway.

“Mr. Echolls is checking out and wants to speak with you.”

 _Now_ he wants to talk to her? Unbelievable.

“Did we comp all of Mr. Echolls’ mini-bar charges?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you what this was about?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“Great,” Veronica mutters. “Just great.” She stands up from her desk, smooths out her grey pencil skirt, and resolves to find a balance between professional and cold.

Callie points her in the direction of the fireside lounge. It’s out of view of the front desk and a part of her hopes he won’t be there by the time she arrives. But there he is, tucked into a corner of the fireside lounge, staring at a painting of the California coastline. The clack of her heels on the floor make it impossible for her to sneak up on him. Logan’s eyes appear to brighten at the sight of her but that would be ridiculous.

He takes a step towards her. “Veronica.”

She takes a step back. “Mr. Echolls. I hope you had an enjoyable stay.”

“I did, thank you.”

“Excellent. You needed to speak with me?”

“Are you okay?”

“Absolutely,” she says with a bright smile. “Of course, we’re sorry to say goodbye to such a valued guest as yourself.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’re acting like a pod person.” He looks her up and down. “A very attractive pod person, but a pod person nonetheless.”

She wants to kick him. “What is it you needed, Mr. Echolls?” The sooner he tells her what he needs the sooner this can be over.

“You’re upset with me.”

“Mr. Echolls, if there’s nothing else–” She moves to return to the front desk. The touch of his hand to hers and the gentle pull to bring her back triggers her sense memory of the night they first met.

“Why are you calling me Mr. Echolls?”

“That’s your name.”

“You’re upset with me.”

“I need to get back.” She steps away only to be brought back again when Logan tugs on her hand. How did she not realise they were holding hands? “Logan –”

“See, that’s better.”

“You ignored me. Which is impressive given I’ve seen you–”

“You told me to stop flirting with you.”

“That didn’t stop you before!”

“Are you mad at me for listening to you or not listening to you?”

She wrenches her hand from his grasp. “Travel safe, Mr. Echolls.” Rather than pull her back, Logan quickly moves to impede her path, blocking her exit from the lounge.

“I’m back in Neptune next month.”

“Congratulations.” She steps to the right and he counters her move.

“I’d like to book the same room again.”

“Whatever you like, Mr. Echolls.” She steps to the left and he again counters. “Stop doing that.”

“It’s against the rules to date a guest. Right?”

“Shut up.”

“But what if you were already dating someone and they became a guest?”

She folds her arms across her chest and looks away from him. “Technically that would be fine.” Man, this guy really blew past her attempt at coldly professional.

“That gives me a month, then.” And she really doesn’t want to look at him. Wants to maintain the remaining vestiges of her stubbornness. She looks anyway. His thumb traces the dent in her chin. This is all so past the point of professionalism.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says.

He nods. “I have been.”

“Why?”

“Do you know your skin smells like lavender?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Or that this cheekbone,” he traces her right cheek with his finger, “is slightly higher than the other? Or that you wiggle a little when you eat something that tastes good? _That’s_ why I’ve been avoiding you. Because every time I’m with you I discover something new. And every new thing makes me want to kiss you.”

She takes a slow, steadying breath. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not a guest anymore.”

“I am not.”

She presses her fingers to her lips and watches as Logan’s eyes track the movement. “I need you to kiss me.”

The first press of Logan’s lips against hers is gentle, almost tentative, like he’s afraid she’s going to change her mind. Honestly, they are so far past that being an option. His fingers wind into her hair; fingernails scratching lightly at her scalp at the same time he presses his lips against hers again, harder this time. Her stomach swoops with the dual sensations. God, this could get out of hand.

(Would it really be so bad if she let it get out of hand?)

She slides a hand up his back, gripping him by the shoulder, feeling the angles and contours of his shoulders and neck. As Logan changes the angle of the kiss, his teeth lightly graze her lip.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes out, and his lips turn up in a smile even as he continues to kiss her. She should probably be embarrassed by her breathy exhalation, but she can barely string a cogent thought together. Veronica experiences everything in this moment as fragmented sensation. The starch of his collar as she runs her fingers over his neck. The soft graze of his fingers as they find their way to her waist, pulling her closer.

She pulls away, laughing. “What are we doing?”

“You told me to kiss you. Now shut up so we can do it some more.” He presses his lips to hers again.

“If you tell me to shut up one more time.” She tugs on his hair, bringing him away from her lips. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

He shakes his head. “My driver’s outside. I can get more work done from the back of a car.”

“What? No private plane?” She smooths out the shirt collar she tugged at. It’s a little rumpled but passable.

“I’ll call you tonight?”

She shrugs. “Fine.”

He laughs, kisses the tip of her nose, and then takes a step back, smoothing down his tie. “You don’t fool me, Veronica Mars. You’re halfway in love with me.”

“Oh, snookums, if anyone is halfway in love with anyone, it’s you.”

“I’m not denying it,” Logan says.

This is ridiculous, right? They barely know each other and he’s talking like he wants her. Like _really_ wants her. They’re playing with dangerous stuff.

“Text me the dates you’re staying next month,” she says.

“Oh, I’ll text you a lot more than that.”

“You’re hassling me.”

“Me hassling _you_?”

The echo of their conversation fifteen years ago makes her smile. She offers him a little wave goodbye and turns around, willing the flush in her cheeks to dissipate before she returns to the front desk.

As she walks back to the desk, she presses her fingers to her lips. Her lipstick is probably a mess and she doesn’t even want to know what her hair looks like. (The manic smiling thing is also going to pose some problems.) In many ways the whole jumping from the edge thing is a relief. Especially because it turns out she was right all those years ago: the man is absolutely a menace.

But fuck if he isn’t a menace who knows how to kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the shirtless Logan scene, it's all because of scandalpants. Thanks also to applemysteries for her cheerleading and very strong opinions on my use of the word "well."
> 
> Alternate title: far more italics than _necessary_.


End file.
